I Will Always
by Luna Maria Boulevardes
Summary: "I don't want your better," I say, crying and shaking my head. "Please, you have to understand; I don't want to be all alone again." An eating disorder threatens to destroy everything in Carly's life - including herself. Seddie
1. Prologue: Reality Check

_I Will Always _

By L. M. Boulevardes

* * *

Prologue: Reality Check

_Reality check: you can never, ever, use weight loss to solve problems that are not related to your weight. At your goal weight or not, you still have to live with yourself and deal with your problems. You will still have the same husband, the same job, the same kids, and the same life. Losing weight is not a cure for life. _

_~Phillip C. McGraw, __The Ultimate Weight Solution: The 7 Keys to Weight Loss Freedom__, 2003_

_

* * *

_

**22 September 2010 Wednesday**

"I'm Carly."

"And I'm Sam."

"And this . . . is our – "

"_Ohmygod_!"

One, two, three – she hits the ground with a symphony around her, everything singing in perfect time. The floor hurts her, hurts her like the world hurts God. She chokes on her breath and stares vacantly at the ceiling, feeling the waves convulse over her like the storm Juno sent on Aeneas. Her ribs hurt her stomach, trying to thrust through her viscera, her paper-thin and paper-pale skin. Her dark hair pools around her face and she stares at the ceiling, cheeks burning red with humiliation.

"Carly. . . Carly, can you hear me? What's wrong?" Sam asks, and Carly can barely see her through the blurriness. She's a haloed angel, just this fuzzy gold thing. her hair falls down and it looks like sunbeams reaching out to her, reaching down to take her away, pull her into some place warm and beautiful.

"Ahhhhhh. . ." It hurts. It hurts a lot, actually. She's really having a difficult time breathing and all she wants to do is grab the air, stuff it into her throat but she can't-can't-can't . . "Ahhhh-_ahhhhh_!" Her shrieking isn't seeming to do anything.

"Freddie, call nine-one-one!" Sam shouts. "It's going to be ok Carls, you'll see. It'll all be okay. Hang on, Carly. Hang in there." Sam's hot hands are grasping one of hers, and she wishes she would just let go and leave her well enough alone. She's drifting and floating now, and she's wondering if she's about to have an out of body experience. That would be pretty cool, actually. . .

Freddie has dropped the camera, and she can see it lying there. It's reading her dead dark eyes, her pale pale pale skin and her skinny skinny skinny body. She suspects she dying, and she's hardly even sure she cares. That can't be a good thing. . . no, no, no.

When Spencer comes in he cradles her head in his lap, and his tears fall on her face. Even when the pains are lesser she can't find her voice, can't find the energy to tell them everything is going to be okay and they're all overreacting. It's just too hard to breathe, to focus on that one little crucial task at hand. But she wishes they would all stop crowding her and touching her; she's sweaty and disgusting and she can't believe she's being watched on the fucking internet like this. What a legacy; what a legacy!

By the time the medics arrive she's shutting her eyes, and she's drifting, floating, going somewhere far away where nothing-no one will ever touch her – ever hurt her, pure as a sunbeam.


	2. I: His Favorite Girl

I: His Favorite Girl

* * *

_Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add,_

_but when there is nothing left to take away. _

_~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

* * *

_

28 September 2009 Monday

The alarm clock goes off at six a.m.

I roll over and press the off button, lying in wait for a few minutes to catch my breath and work up the strength to open my eyes. It is one of those mornings I can _feel_ the earliness, the weight of the night still holding heavily on me. I know without opening my eyes that it is be dark outside; the sun is smart enough to get up at a reasonable hour. I'm not.

I force my eyes open and blink at the ceiling a couple of times, waiting for the drowse to subside. Every morning, every day: alarm clock goes off, I spring out of bed, I do my miles. It hurts. It was worst in the beginning, of course, but that's over now. The beginning was nine months ago. It was cold then, but it's been warmer, although I can already sense the way the air is changing, the way the cold is seeking upon us. Seattle doesn't have brutal winters, but they're certainly not my first choice either.

I shiver as I pull myself from the comfort of my bed, stumbling into the bathroom. Always the same: use bathroom. Take off clothes. Weigh myself. Put on running clothes. Do my miles.

Today I approve of the number. Well, as much as I ever approve of any of the number anyway. It's one hundred. I've lost twenty-five pounds since I've started. Five pounds just since school started. It's funny; January to June, I only lost ten. But June to August I lost ten too. But I wasn't being so careful in January to June; I was being fat and lazy and indulgent and weak, when I should have been strong and disciplined. Now, I am better. I am so much better than I ever was before. I've very, very careful. Because more than anything else in this world, I want to see those triple digits go double. Oh yes I do.

Spencer is sleeping on the couch and I shut the tv off. Art books are spread out across the coffee table with a mixture of soda cans and cups of now-cold coffee. I clear these things off before I go, even though I worry about Spencer waking up and asking me why I'm up so early. I don't know why, exactly, but I'm sure he wouldn't approve of my morning runs. That's not true; I know why. But he can't know. He can't ever, ever know.

The water sounds loud as it rushes down the sink. Clink-clink-clink go the little droplets against porcelain as I wash the mugs, my hands turning pink from the hot water. They're chapped all the time, and cold. But I'm not surprised. I don't get to be upset or surprised when I'm doing this all to myself.

But every good girl is just a bad girl who doesn't get caught.

The sun is breaking out, little fingers clipping the clouds and swirling them into white, cumulus fluff. I'd like to sink into one of those clouds and sleep for ages. I love the sun. That's why I was so weak and forgetful this summer. June I let myself languish and stay fat, thinking everything was fine. But of course it wasn't; I don't know how I could be stupid to have thought that. Luckily, July was closing and I realized that school would start and I would like fat-fat-fat, so I kicked my fat ass into gear. No sugar and no salt. Sam thought I was crazy, but she shrugged and accepted it, watching me eat carrot sticks and hummus. Not that I eat hummus anymore. There are fifty calories in two tablespoons of hummus. That's twenty-five calories per tablespoon. So I can have hummus, or a whole cup of carrots. Really, it's simple math.

"You're so weird," Sam said, wrinkling her nose as I opened the container that first day in July. "You're not fat, Carly, I don't know why you're going on a stupid diet. Didn't you lose some weight already anyway?"

"I just want to look good when school starts. Besides, if none of my clothes fit Spencer will have to buy me new ones," I reasoned, pitching into my perky voice. Sam blinked uncertainly.

"This is one of those girly things I'm not going to understand." It wasn't a question. I shrugged non-commitally. "Whatever. More cookies for me!" she reasoned gleefully. I sighed in relief and then felt guilty for doing so. Even then I was beginning to sense her, to grow accustomed to the way she ran her fingers through my hair and then smashed my wrists into my desk. She was there then, just putting down her roots, sinking in and getting comfortable in my skin. She wanted to control me but then, I wanted to be controlled.

I finish washing the dishes and dry them, putting them away into the cabinets. Then I slip out the door and down the stairs into the crisping air. Soon, it will be true autumn. We'll carve jack-o'-lanterns. I'll bake pumpkin scones and pumpkin bread with Spencer. And maybe, if Ana is feeling particularly generous . . . I'll eat some. Yes. Caramel apple cider with Sam. Hot candy apples . . .

_Not for you! _

Ana has always been as quick to discipline as she is to coddle. I feel the impact as I watch her anger unfold: she shows me an image of taking my head and slamming into the concrete below our feet, blood leaking from my head. I flinch and she cackles, pleased herself. She likes to intimidate me . . . but I can't get mad about it, because I let her.

She has me run five miles every morning. It was only two in July, but I kept building, realising that I was still fat-f-at-fat despite it all. I was embarrassed to go the school the first day, embarrassed by my fat thighs and stomach, by the way my new clothes held to my body. I wanted to rip it all off. I wanted to hide my hideous face somewhere where no one would ever see me.

"You look _fantastic_, Carly. I mean, you're _really_ skinny," Josh Haggers remarked, a boy who sat in front of me in English. Apparently we went to middle school together, but I'll be honest: I had no recollection of him. I blushed when he said this and barely heard the rest of his enthusiastic monologue. He was lying to me; I wasn't skinny. Not yet. Oh no not yet. Not yet at all.

"Hey Carly, don't eat that donut, you're making the rest of us look bad! Not all us can be that skinny on junk!" Shannon McCall shouted at lunch as I passed the dessert table. I blushed with shame and wished I had worn an old dress that was too big on me so I could hide in it and be left well enough alone. God, did she have to point it out to the whole world that I was a freaking cow?

_But you are, Carly_, Ana says in her sweet sing-song voice. She's playing with my hair again, reminding me that I better keep it in good shape so no one suspects anything. Beauty treatments are my rewards; for every mile I run, I earn a face mask, or a massage, or a pedicure, or something like that. Things to make me beautiful, to show off the lovely new body Ana's going to give me. Not the yucky food others tempt themselves with. Not the gluttonous, counter-productive measures that the rest of them are taking. Why bother running off calories if you're just doing to eat them back on? Really, at the end of the day it's all rather . . . pointless.

* * *

The doorbell rings as I just have finished with my hair. I blow dry it every day now so I can hide the spilt ends, the dulling, the thinning. I wear in down and when I'm unhappy I let it fall over my face, a curtain to shield me from the rest of the world. Because sometimes, it's just not worth it. Sometimes, I just can't deal with everything no matter how hard I'm trying. But no one knows. They can't.

"Hey," I greet Sam and Freddie. They notice me less and less now that they're going out. I'm fading into the background, becoming something other than myself. I _am_ the walls around me, the cool skip in the air. And it's okay. I'm happy for them to leave me alone; it's a relief. I don't have to tell so many lies.

"Do you want to skip class and get Portuguese food?" Sam asks hopefully, blue eyes bright and shining. Freddie scowls and glares at her.

"I thought we agreed we would _not_ be asking Carly to break any laws today," he scolds. Sam laughs showing all her white teeth, her head back and the golden locks falling gracefully from her face.

"Oh, Fredward, if I kept _every_ promise I made you'd get bored," she says cheerily. Freddie's eyebrows pinch as he begins to ponder this statement as Sam breaks out of her laugh into a smile. "Come on, Carly, let's go."

"To school," I add, taking my bags up. We begin our descent down the hall towards the stairs, my feet making a too-loud clip-clap-clap on the wooden floor. I felt light just an hour ago, but now I feel heavy and lumber, as though I could tear down this whole building with the slightest carelessness of a hand. It's too early and I've eaten too much to be so dizzy. I had a granola bar. You're supposed to eat _something_ for breakfast to kick start the metabolism. I'm not about to let anything happen to my metabolism. And neither will Ana.

"What are we going to do for the show this afternoon?" Freddie asks as we leave the building, hitting the crisp autumn air all over again. Sam shrugs and looks to me, and I wish she wouldn't. I bite my lip and furrow my brow but then drop it. Furrowing your brow will give you wrinkles, everyone knows that.

"I've decided to become a vegetarian," I suddenly hear myself saying. Sam and Freddie exchange looks and then stare at me.

"Since when?" Freddie asks. Sam coughs a little and looks more horrified.

"_Why_?" she questions in disbelief. "Carly, that means no _ham!_" she reminds me in absolute horror. I shrug.

"It's good for the environment. Besides, animals have feelings too. Can we really justify killing an animal because it had a 'good life'? First of all, I've had a good fifteen years and I don't want anyone killing _me_. Second of all, most of them don't have such good lives anyway. We should say something about it." Yes, there we go. Now that the idea has put down her roots it makes sense and it's here to stay. I nestle into the soft folds, taking comfort in the newest excuse. _I can't eat that, I'm a vegetarian_. Yes, I'll save myself all kinds of horror, like eating all that _fat_. Just a little more time . . . and I can even be a _vegan_. Yes, then they'll never expect me to eat ice cream again! Or milk! Or yoghurt! Anything with honey! Yes, veganism was a gift from God!

"I guess so, Carly," Freddie says. He looks at Sam and she stays silent. She's changed; she's quiet now when she was loud, more careful, quicker to restrain than I've ever known her. Freddie soothes her temper like a balm, when before it was the kindling to her fire. It's fascinating to watch. It's a beautiful symmetry.

"Good. We'll shoot this afternoon," I said decisively. No one argues with me and we're quiet the rest of the way to school. I hang up my jacket in my locker and neatly organize my books, comforted by their perfect shapes, their perfect condition. My books don't get thrown around and destroyed. My books are sacred vessels.

"Good morning, fellow panthers!" Isaiah Parnish shouts over the loudspeaker. "It's a lovely autumn day, and do I have some announcements for _you!_" It really should have been me up there, but at the auditions I got nervous. My throat closed up. I had never happened to me before, but as they say there's a first time for everything. Whatever. I have iCarly; Isaiah doesn't have jack shit.

"Our lunch options today include chicken and eggplant parmesan!" As though I care. I don't eat lunch. Sometimes I have an apple. But usually it's nothing. I can't eat lunch when there's dinner looming. Even Spencer would probably notice if I stopped eating dinner these days. I have to wait for him to get involved in some project or other again, to stop paying so much attention. Now he always wants to do these family sit-down dinners like we used to. It's incredibly frustrating.

A project will come soon enough. It _has _to. I just have to keep taking deep breaths, keep waiting and being patient. It will come, it will come, it will come. It has to come, because if it doesn't come I don't know what I'm going to do.

I take a seat in English, fully prepared to not pay any attention to anything that's going on around me. Bored and tired. School is hard this year, harder than I anticipated. But none the matter. I know I can do it if I keep grinding on, keep forcing myself to get through it. I am strong enough to hold my appetite; I am strong enough to do my homework.

_Don't be a lazy slut, Carly_, Ana reminds me. She's filing her nails, looking pleased with herself. _Yours are short and ugly. Go put on some nail polish, Lazy Slut_. Great. She has a new nickname for me. Somehow, I feel that I shouldn't be surprised. Ana is always pulling shit like this.

"Miss Shay, care to join us down here on earth?" My English teacher calls. I blush and stare at my legs. I'm fallen asleep three times in this class so far today; I just can't help it. I try to stay awake . . . but I just can't _focus._

5 mi run at a speed of 6 mph = 600 calories burned

1 Special K granola bar = 90 calories

Net loss today = 510 calories

1 pounds of fat = 3500 lbs

Now, if I eat a salad for lunch . . . if I eat nothing . . . if I float above it all and allow the sacred vessel of my body to be pure . . .

"You don't eat lunch now, Shay?" Jack Maggers asks, lingering the doorway of the bio room. I jump and he doesn't hide his laugh.

"Go away," I say. I let my hair fall, cutting him off. _If I can't see you than you can't see me_.

"No can do, Shay, I'm in this class next period." He cheerily sits down beside me and I don't try to hide my irritation.

"You're not eating lunch either," I point out defiantly. I look him over, taking him in all over again. Jack was new this year. He's tall, with brown hair and brown eyes. He's gorgeous. He looks like he just walked away from shooting a music video for some pop-punk band; he's also got the ego to go with.

"I save it for my rampant boy-limia binges and purges every night," he says, laughingly. I roll my eyes.

"You know, some people actually do have eating disorders," I chide. "You're being insensitive."

"I am not," he retorts. "It's not insensitive if it's true."

"But it's not true."

"It is for you." His words startle me but I keep things in check. I'm not going to lose to him.

"What on earth makes you think I have an eating disorder?" I ask. I toss my hair over one shoulder and look him in the eye.

"Maybe I'm an addict too," he says. For a moment I can also believe he's being sincere, and then I decide it doesn't matter because he's taking me somewhere scary, somewhere I don't feel ready to go. I pull away.

"That wasn't cryptic or anything," I say sarcastically. He shakes his head, looking part amusement, part disbelief.

"Here." He scrawls his phone number on the back of my hand before I can time to protest or stop him. Actually, I find that I don't want to stop him once he's there, his hands so warm on my cold ones. I wonder if he's looking at how my fingernails are going blue. "You'll call me."

"Don't hold your breath," I say. But I make the mistake of looking at him for good measure, and something shifts. I see the seriousness in his face, the flash of pain. I see that his confidence isn't the usual cockiness he spots; it's a belief, and it's a pained one. My stomach flips and I pull back. _Good, _Ana growls. _If you're nauseous all the time you won't eat. _


	3. II: Forever and Always

II: Forever and Always

* * *

_Starvation is control._

_Control is tough._

_Bones are beautiful,_

_When "skinny" just isn't – _

_Enough. _

_- Unknown, common quote on pro-ana websites._

_

* * *

_

**14 October 2009 **

I am ninety-six.

I am so kitten-weak.

My head swims as I squint my eyes, focusing on the board as best I can. It's getting harder to focus than it ever was before, and it takes everything in me to keep my grades from slipping. I stay up most of the night studying, working. It doesn't matter though; no matter how tired I am, it's impossible to sleep. I toss and turn, and sometimes I just exercise until I collapse. I do crunches on my bedroom floor, and then wake up feeling disoriented, my back stiff.

Night comes. Doing my homework, I have to fight off another dizzy spell. They're happening with increasing frequency, and I can't help it. _I want to eat I want to eat I want to eat I want to eat . . . _ and I can't. I can't can't can't and it's horrible. My stomach hurts so much, my head is exploding out of my head.

I stumble to the kitchen, my hands shaking. I open the kitchen door, and it shines on me like the light of God. I see the milk, the yoghurt, the fruits and vegetables. I see it all spread out before me, a feast. There are pudding cups, and whipped cream. I close the door and open the freezer. The blast of cold air hits me, and I see the frozen bagels, the frozen instant dinners, the ice cream – the ice cream! I pull the ice carton out and place in out the counter. I push myself up onto the counter, and cross my legs. I open the ice cream carton with the reverence of a man opening the ark of the Torah.

I smell the minty, chocolaty goodness. It's delicious. It's full of milk, so creamy, so sugary, so fat and . . . so, so very evil. So very, very, trying to kill me. I scoop it out with my hands and press it against my face. I don't eat it. I rub it all over my face, feeling the cool mint seep into my pores. I press it against my already cold arms, and my neck. It's sticky, getting in my hair. I take the ice cream to my room and before I quite know what I'm doing I'm in my bathroom. I take all my clothes off, and I sit in the shower, smearing the ice cream everywhere until I use it all up. It's on my legs, my shoulders, in my hair, all over my face. I catch my reflection in the mirror and stare at myself in horror, stare at the green goo all over me. Oh god oh god oh god oh god. . . .

I blast the shower, hissing as the water burns, scrubbing so hard I bleed in some places. I want to scratch all my skin off, find what's underneath, what's pure. I need to get this off off off, I need to get away from this skin. I'm convinced it's seeping into my body, making me fat, killing me slowly. You don't have to eat this stuff to gain weight from it, I'm sure. I can't believe I just did that. All I want to do is forget, make it all go away. Jesus, what's wrong with me? This isn't normal. This is just crazy.

And I don't want to be crazy.

It hits me hard, falling over me just as I've wrapped the towel around myself. I curl up, breathing hard, trying to make the horrible pain go away. It seizes over me, and the darkness consumes me until I let it wash over me, pass onto to wherever it is that it goes. It's not physical; I can feel it physically, but I know it's not a heart attack or an asthma attack. It's in my throat, and I feel like screaming. There's panic. There's fear. I'm paralyzed; I sit there in the darkness, trying to get my body to open up. I cry. I can't help it. I cry, holding my legs, trying to make something change, trying to make it go away, ready to scream to make it stop stop stop.

My fingers grasp something. My phone. My phone? What good will that do for me? I want to hurl it across the room, useless piece of shit. Like Sam or Freddie could help me now. They won't go there. They're not like me; they're afraid of the dark. They won't know what to do with my darkness, with the black nightmare thing that lives within me, hideous. My fingers trail along the numbers, trying to think.

I scroll through my contacts, and my eyes land on one in particular. _Jack_. Jack. His words are floating back to me, foggy from weeks ago. I can't believe that I even put him in my contacts . . . and yet I did. I did, because in the back of my mind I think I knew that this would happen.

I hit SEND.

"Hello?" comes a raspy, throaty half-whisper. I shiver, and my mouth is almost too dry to answer. But somehow, I manage to choke it out.

"It hurts," I whimper. And then I go silent, because I can't get anymore words up. I can hear his frown before he even speaks.

"Who is this?" he asks. But it took all I have to just get out what I did, and there are no more words left for him or anyone anymore. I can't say anything, so I lie on the bathroom room, cold and dirty, until sleep finally takes me.

* * *

"You smell like mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, Carly!" Sam says cheerily. "It's really good. Hey, Freddie, would you like it if _I_ smelled like mint chocolate-chip ice cream?" she asks, turning to her boyfriend. Ugh. Gag me. Oh, wait, I already do that. No. That's a lie. I'm afraid of throwing up. The body wasn't designed to throw up constantly. Withstand famine and starvation? But of course. Vomiting? Not so much. I purge with exercise. And fasting. But I try to avoid having to purge at all in the first place.

"I'd rather have you taste like mint chocolate-chip ice cream," Freddie says without thinking. Then he blushes and I can't help but laugh. Freddie trying to be a boyfriend is just . . . funny.

"What's this? Carly can laugh?" Sam asks. "Didn't know you did that anymore, Carls! You've seemed . . . I dunno, like you've been living in a world without ham." She shudders in horror at the thought and my stomach rebels gleefully. My head is suddenly poisoned with thoughts of ham sandwiches, of bacon, the salty taste in my mouth –

NO! Betrayal! _You know how many calories are in that, _Ana hisses. _Whack_. The sound of her slamming my brain against the walls of my head, making me dizzy. _Whack_. The sound of her slamming my bony body against concrete, my head snapping forward, my chin breaking on my chest. _There are 50 calories and 4 grams of fat in each slice of bacon. That's half a mile on the treadmill. Three cups of lettuce is 25 calories and no fat. _

She's right. She's always right.

"I've just been tired is all. Junior year is hard." I brush some hair behind my ear and blush when a piece breaks off in my hand. It's starting; I know by now what to expect. My hair will thin, and get dull, and break. Clumps will come out in my hands. And I will seek to be ever thinner yet.

_Well, you are a fat cow_, Ana reminds me. I almost nod in agreement but stop myself. Lately, we've been getting comments about my weight loss on iCarly. Only one girl said she thought I was too skinny. She left me links:

www. anad .org

www. somethingfisy .com

www. eatingdisorderblogs .com

Like she could save me. Like I'm helpable. Like I _want_ her help! There is one place for me on the internet: with the hungry girls. They share their tricks, their quotes, remind me to _stay strong _and _just keep going_. No matter how hungry I get, they keep me where I need to be. I look at the pictures, the beautiful models, the celebrities. But my favorites are the real girl thinspo (1). That, and the reverse triggers (2). They keep me strong.

"Isn't it a bitch though?" Sam adds, taking another bite of her sandwich. All I want to do is leave. I hate being around this food, this stinking food that smells and temps me to _eat_ it. I just want to be left alone to be miserable. Left alone for them not to notice what I do or don't eat. So I can exercise. So I can not eat. So I don't have to watch them be all kissy-couply and feel the envy burn through me like acid reflux.

"I'm going to class, I have to work on this bio thing," I tell them. Worry flashes and I watch them exchange a look.

"What are you eating for lunch? Carrots and celery are like, pathetic," Sam says. I laugh, and my throat burns even more for it. _Lie, _Ana hisses.

"Um, uh. . ." _I said lie! _I point to a slice of cake across the room, and it's as though Ana took control of me totally for a moment, and all Carly had was a little tiny space in the back of her mind, a prison-cage. "I'm going to eat that," I say, flashing Sam my it's-all-good smile. I cross the room, and loathingly part with two dollars for the oversize slice of carrot cake. I wave as I leave the room, digging the white plastic fork into the soft cake. Sam and Freddie look relieved and pleased. Assholes. Stupid goddamm fucking couples.

I throw the cake out as soon I turn the corner out of the cafeteria.

* * *

"You called me last night, Shay," Jack insists as he slides in next to me. I resist the urge to should him off his stood and the slap the smug grin off his face. "I understand; the ladies touch can't get away from this hot bod," he laughs. My hair falls down.

"I don't know _what_ you're talking about," I tell him. "Can you just leave me alone? I have work to do." Okay, that's a lie. Well, it is and it isn't. There's always homework to do; I've just done everything I'm supposed to for class today.

"Liar." He grabs a chunk of my hair and I shriek with fear, with anger, with pain. I whip-fast pull it back to my head and glare at him.

"How dare you!"

"It's only breaking a little so far," he notes, holding a single black-brown strand in his hair. I have the strangest urge to rip it out of his hands and demand it back, but even Crazy Carly knows how _that_ would look.

_Aw, she learns, that's so cute! Smile quick kiddo, this one's going into the family photo album_. Well, at least Ana's getting some amusement out of the whole thing.

"You don't know me," I say, staring at him. He shrugs.

"Yes I do. I know you better than your father, your brother, your so-called friends." He's looking at me the same way he did all the weeks ago, when his eyes board into mine and my heart went ka-rumpa-thrumpa-rump. And it's doing that all over again, and some little part of me sings under his gaze. I want so much for it to be that he understands.

I'm absolutely terrified out what that would mean.

"And how is that? What do you know about me that none of the people closest to me do?" I ask, crossing my arms. He smiles sadly.

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" He leans back and his eyes flash with – with something. I can't pinpoint it. Amusement, maybe.

"Say what?"

"Anorexia nervosa." It pierces me like an arrow in the night. _Ana_, I think. _I'm pro-ana_. It still doesn't sound any better.

"I'm not anorexic. Leave me alone."

"Liar. You called me." He grabs my hand, and pushes up, so they're palm to palm in front of us. I watch and do not pull away, even though everything in me scream that we're going to get caught, not I understand fully even yet why that's so bad.

"Holy palmer's kiss," I whisper. He smiles softly.

"What?"

"It's from _Romeo and Juliet_. Palm to palm, Holy Palmer's kiss. Our hands," I'm stumbling stupidly over the words and Ana is rolling her eyes at me. _You're a mess, girlita. No wonder I had to swoop in here, it's amazing you got on this long without me_.

"I remember." We don't move. "You remember what Romeo does after he and Juliet do this?"

"What?" He's kissing me. He tastes like metal and chocolate, with a hint of salt. There is a surprising lack of aggression in the kiss, and with great trepidation I kiss back just a little bit. He pulls away, and looks at me with those _eyes_.

"So let lips do as hands do," he quotes back playfully.

"What is this? Why me?" I ask. "You don't even know me!" I point out again. A hand brushing my hair back.

"You're an addict too, Carly. And you're beautiful. And we could have so much fun together," he says. A new light to his features, the scent of excitement – or is it arousal? At this point, what's it worth to distinguish the two?

"I'm not beautiful. I'm just broken," I laugh, although the sound is awful to my ears. He kisses me again, just a hint more aggression. "Stop it."

"You'll call," he says confidently, dropping his hand. I'm suddenly cold. I spring out of my chair, running to the bathroom, and I splash water on my face, alternating between hot and cold until my mind stops seething and Ana stops laughing.

* * *

"What should we do for the show today?" Sam asks, looking to Freddie and me for opinions. My lips are still burning from Jack's kiss, even thought it was hours ago by now. I haven't told Sam; I wonder if she would be angry that I didn't.

"Let's take a camera and do a review of the public bathrooms of Seattle so people know where they can pee without wanting to puke," I suggest. Sam lights up.

"Perfect! This, Carly, is why you rock," she announces. "Yo, boyfriend, you can bring the camera with and we can do a live broadcast, right?" she asks. She leans over and spontaneously kisses him. He laughs and I shake, but control it. I force it all into my hands, and then out my fingertips and onto the pavement. There is no room for resentment. I'm happy for Sam and Freddie, I really am. I'm happy. I'm not jealous of the fact that they're in love. I'm not angry that weekend nights are empty, and they abandon me for each other. I'm really not.

* * *

Night. Bathroom. Cold. Floor.

JackIthinkIneedyou.

* * *

1. thinspo – a syncopated version of _thinspirtation_, from the words "thin" and "inspiration". Pro-ana websites features quotes, book and movies recommendations, and pictures that are supposed to encourage viewers to lose weight.

2. Reverse triggers – photos of morbidly obese people and statistics about obesity, meant to scare one out of eating.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Questions? Suggestions? Ideas? I want to hear them - thanks so much for following thus far!


	4. III: Control Freak

III: Control Freak

* * *

_I don't care if it __**hurts**__; I want to have control._

_I want a perfect body and I want a perfect soul._

_~ "Creep" by Radiohead._

_

* * *

_

**28 October 2009**

Sam is breathing softly next to me, her breath disturbing my hair. I'm exhausted, but I can't sleep. We spent the night painting our nails – well, I painted my nails, anyway. I have to keep them painted all the time now, hide the changes from all of them. The blue disturbs even me, and I know I know so much better. And yet it changes nothing and I continue to hurdle headforth into danger.

My iPod is full of Superchick songs, _Courage _on repeat. And _Sophie_, and soon I'll buy _Ana's Song_. I don't know how to begin, how to explain Ana (1). Sometimes I think I have split personality disorder. Sometimes I think this is the beginning of my tragic descent into schizophrenia. But Ana's as she always says:

_I'm your butter, _

_I'm your bread._

_I'll take you in and fill you up_

_With lack of being fed._

I don't go near Mia (2). Mia scares me. I can't purge, I just can't. I don't want to be throwing up, scared, alone. And I'm not attracted to Ed (3); it's just so feminine to me, this thing. Ana is my salvation, Ana is the one I turn to. She's blond haired and green eyed, with skin as pale as virgin snow. I can see her dancing down a road right now; snow is falling. She's wearing a white dress and dancing, dancing, on her little stick legs. She laughs, throwing her head back and showing all her teeth. Ana is invincible. Ana is so happy.

And I'm so very not.

I don't know how it began; why I chose this. If I chose this. I can hardly tell anymore which came first. I'm not even really sure that it even matters. I guess it must have started when Sam and Freddie got together – or no, maybe not. Maybe the seeds were planted before that, when I was so lonely, sitting alone in the apartment when Spencer was at art shows. I love my brother, and I know he loves me. He's doing the best he can by me . . . but it's lonely. And I miss my father. I miss my mother.

I used to sit by myself at the table at night with the Chinese takeout, with the Domino's. But that began to mean nothing, and food tasted like sawdust. So I didn't eat it anymore. I just threw it away. God, I was so low. The weight loss was just accidental at first. But then . . . but then it became everything. It was such a distraction from the empty table, to sit there and do crunches, to count and re-count what I'd eaten – what I _hadn't_ eaten – that day. And when Ana began to push herself forth into my head – God, she was the best friend I'd never had but always wanted. Ana might hate me and think I was disgusting, but she would never, _ever_ leave me. Not like my mother, who ran away, or my father, in the military. Not like Sam, or Freddie, or Spencer. Ana was always there with me, hugging me close, keeping me company.

And now, I'm addicted, I think. I'm addicted to the control, the weight loss. I've consumed everything there is to know about weightloss. I know all the dangers, but I'm not scared. I'm stupid, I'm sure, but that's alright. As long as I have this one sure thing to ground me, to hold me in place, I can handle things.

"Carly, why are you awake?" Sam asks, and reality suddenly comes back into focus at the sound of her voice. I snuggle close to her, and she wraps her arms around my waist so I'm pulled right against her chest. I put my arms around her neck, and scrunch up my legs to tuck my toes between her thighs. "Hey," she whispers, burying her nose in my neck. That's the thing about Sam that no one knows; well, except maybe Freddie now, I guess. She's very sweet when she feels safe enough to let her guard down. She just has a hard time with the whole letting-her-guard down thing.

"Hey," I whisper back. I inhale, smelling her Herbal Essences shampoo. She smells like lavender.

"What's up?" she asks, her thumb absentmindedly rubbing back and forth over my side. Part of me feels self-conscious to have her so close, all over my fat. The other part is cold, and grateful for the pleasant warmth of her body.

"I'm just cold. And you kicked me," I lie. I feel her make a face against my neck. Her lips are warm and moist and I wonder for a moment where those lips have been. Just as quickly I drive the through from my head. I don't _want_ to think about Sam blowing Freddie, I really don't.

"Sorry. My god, you're shaking like a leaf," she says with concern. She pulls me tighter to her and I'm grateful for the layers of sweatshirts protecting me. If they weren't there, she would feel all my bones and start worrying again. Or worse – she would feel all my bones and _not _worry about me.

"That's a cliché," I automatically say. "I think they really liked the one we did with the public bathroom reviews. We should find something else obscure but useful to review," I say, changing the subject.

"Definitely. I wonder how thrilled the government of Seattle is about the whole thing, though. Oh well. Hooray for criticizing the government and their totally filthy bathrooms!" she croons. She kisses my neck, or it's more some sort of weird puffing against it. She doesn't mean it in any kind of sexual way, I know that, and yet I'm suddenly overcome with wanting to kiss her. Hard. On the mouth. Not because I'm in love with her or anything, don't get me wrong. And I'm not merely horny, or getting turned on by the warmth and closeness.

I just . . . I just want to connect with her, and it's the most basic, primal way I know how. A kiss. I want to use her mouth to suck some part of her soul into me, to make her part of me again. I want her to be Sam, Carly's best friend, not Sam, Freddie's girlfriend. Not the girl disappearing on weekends to places I can't go. I can't be alone anymore. Doesn't anyone understand? _I can't be alone_.

"I'm tired," I say. I press my head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat. Part of me wants to cry, and the other part of me just can't do that. I try to hold myself very still, to listen to the sound of her breath and let it bring me to a safe and beautiful place.

"So sleep. Duh." And now I think I might actually be able to. I drift on the prattling of her voice, on the way her fingers feel when she pets my hair. The comforting warmth of her body. The hum of her voice, vibrating through her, and then me. Her lavender scent. I am not hungry. _I am not hungry._

_

* * *

_

When I wake up the next morning, Sam has brought me breakfast. She slides the tray onto the bed, and then hops up in herself. There's ham, of course, and toast, and some fruit. There's cereal, and some oatmeal. I breath sharply, and the scent smacks me. The muffins – oh god, she warmed them up, they smell _so good_. I want it. I need it.

"It's good that we did this, Carls, I feel like I never see you anymore sometimes. Like you're totally caught up in school," she says. I resist the urge to snort. _And who's fault for them be?_ Ana asks, venom snaking into her voice. I want to defend Sam, but Ana's right; Sam hasn't been a very good friend to me lately. _Of course not. I'm your only real friend_, Ana says. Sam takes a piece of ham and puts it into her mouth nonchalantly, interrupting my mental conversation. I'm amazed. How does Sam _do_ that? How does she just eat something without even thinking about it? What's her secret?

"Uh-huh." I think fruit is safe. I take one strawberry, and the bite explodes in my mouth. It's sweet, and I can feel the crunch of the seeds in my mouth. The soft red-pink-white flesh is heavy in my mouth, and it takes a concerted effort to swallow. Huh. That's . . . that's unusual. Strawberries were always safe. They were supposed to be safe. What am I supposed to do, not eat anything at all? I'll die. I can't do that. I'll die.

"Whoa, you are _pale_," Sam says, giving me a concerned look. I push myself up onto my elbows, trying to stop myself from shaking. For the first time since all this started – for the first time, I'm scared. I'm genuinely scared.

"I'm always pale. We live in Seattle, Sam. It does nothing but rain here. And it's October; any color I got from the summer has faded, ugh. I need to buy more self-tanner," I say. The words sort of fall out of my mouth, and I hear them spoken rather than say them myself.

"I guess," she muses. "What to go out and get coffee at Starbucks?" I swallow and weight it. Sugar-free vanilla latte with skim milk – ninety calories. One mile. Green tea. Zero calories. No miles.

"Okay, that sounds good, I haven't been in a while," I say. But I don't move. Instead I slide down, burying my face in Sam's stomach. She laughs.

"What are you doing?" she asks. "You're weird, Carls, you know that?"

"Fuck you," I say playfully. She gasps and then laughs, the sound shaking her whole body.

"I though Carly Shay didn't curse," she says, poking my stomach. "Been hanging out with Griffin in my absence? Is that why you're so skinny and always disappearing? Is my little Carly lovesick?" She's tickling me, and I shriek with laughter. God, it's a beautiful feeling. I convulse, my hips bucking at the ceiling. And for just one minute, I am free of hating this body –

For one laughing minute, I love my body.

* * *

Sam and I go over to Starbucks, and she smiles and chats up the cashier. She tells me that she comes here with Freddie a lot, because coffee is delicious and relatively cheap. I get sugar-free skim vanilla latte, size tall. I don't want those ninety calories, but Sam is watching, and I think she might be getting suspicious or something. I don't have to drink the whole thing. As a matter of fact, if I just sit there and hold it, everyone will assume I'm drinking it. One must always follow the other, they assume. Ha, idiots.

"Seriously though, is there anyone in your life?" Sam asks as we sit down. My mind flashes to Jack for a moment, but I shake my head.

"Sorry to disappoint," I say, shrugging. She pulls a face and takes another sip of her grande white mocha. _Fat fat fat, she's drinking pure fat! _Ana shrieks in horror. She wants to get me away. She's pulling at me, terrified, and it occurs to me that I'm in a pretty state of affair when I'm afraid of a fricking _latte_.

"You need someone, Carls. Then we can double date," she says. "And, I mean, it's just – it's nice to have someone in your life," she says, voice getting softer, more tender.

"Now, you know I'm not really the sentimental type, or the mushy type – I don't really talk about my feelings or whatever, I tend to punch first and ask questions later," she smiles and I return it. "But – something is different with Freddie. It's so weird, that this would happen after so many years all the arguing and stuff, you know? But, I don't know. Have you ever had someone where they walk in the room, and suddenly the whole day gets better because they're there? It's like that, sort of. Something . . . something in me sings when he's near. God, make me stop, I sound like such a _girl_."

"I thought it was a very cute little speech," I say. I allow myself the tiniest sip of the latte. The foam tastes sweet, the little bubbles going pop-pop-pop on my tongue.

"Thanks, I guess. Hey, did I tell you we got to second base?" she asks. I groan and put the latte down, grateful she's given me an excuse to be too disgusted to drink the latte.

"Thanks, Sam, something I _really_ wanted to know. Great mental image." I wrinkle my nose and she laughs at me.

"Aw, come on! You're my best friend, and you're my girly friend, and I need someone to tell me when it's okay to go to third!" She's trying to be funny, but I can hear the nagging note of true concern and curiosity in her voice. Why she thinks _I_ would know any of this is beyond me.

"I mean, if you _just_ got to second . . ."

"We didn't just-just, we just progressed from mere under-clothing to having nothing on," she says. Her voice is nonchalant but her cheeks are red like she just ran a marathon in December. "So, it would seem that under-clothing third base should follow, right?"

"I mean, do you _want_ to?" I ask, swirling the coffee around in my cup. God, the heat of it is nice. She considers, head cocked to one side.

"We've been going on for like, six months. And I like him, a lot. I might even love him," she says, her eyes suddenly getting big. It's a good thing I wasn't drinking any coffee, because I definitely would have spit it out at her admission.

_You can't love him!_ I want to scream. _You're ruining everything! Can't you see that? You leave me all alone for him and at the studio, it's practically iSamandFreddie. I hate you! I hate you! Fuck you! Fucking fuck you! You're abandoning me, just like everyone else does. _

"I'm so happy for you."

* * *

"I think I love her, Carly," Freddie says to me after school on Tuesday. We're hanging out at the iCarly studio; Sam went out to pick up some Chinese food and soda so we can edit our latest episode. I choke on my Diet Coke. And Freddie gives me a worried glance. "Um, are you okay?"

"Went down the wrong tube," I say in a strangled voice. I cough a few times and the feeling of airlessness subsides. "Really, I promise it wasn't a reaction to you."

_Who would have believed that Carly Shay would be such a great liar? _Ana asks cheerily. I blink and shake my head, trying to get her to topple out.

_You know, I don't need this right now. And I don't remember anyone inviting __**you**__ into the conversation, _I chastise her. Ana makes a little humming sound but for the moment at least she's not going to beat me up, and she'll stay out of my conversation. Good.

"Do you think I should tell her?" Freddie looks like a little kid on Christmas day. "I mean, we've been going out for six months, so it's sort of the right time, but I don't know, it's Sam, and I don't want to like, freak her out or anything," he says with concern. "God, Carly, being in love – it's just, I can't even describe what it's like. It's amazing," he breathes, eyes big with wonder. I can see him drifting before my eyes, going into some world that I can't get to, some world of Sam. I want to punch him.

_Pay attention to me! Look, a lost little girl. Starving for attention. Dying for attention_. I want to cry, but even though I feel that painful lump in my throat I know tears will never come. I don't really cry in front of people. It's too much. It's too close.

"It sounds wonderful," I say. "Tell her. Tell her over some romantic-type thing; but, you know, something that won't be too girly for Sam. But it still has to be romantic." God, what am I saying? I sound stupid and tripping even to my own ears.

"I was going to take her to this Spanish restaurant, the Spanish have good ham," he says with a quite laugh.

"I think that would be perfect." Look at me, aiding in my own demise, in my own undoing. Even when I'm with them, they're not really there, they're with _each other_. I sigh and hug Freddie.

"What was that for?"

_I'm so lonely and I'm craving some human interaction, some closeness._ "Just for being so good to my best friend," I say with a smile.

* * *

"Jack," I whisper into the phone. I hear his breathing on the other end, and it takes more self-control that I'd like to admit to stop myself from calling out for him again.

"Carly," he says, he voice raspy. Is it because it's late at night? Did he just finish throwing up? Questions spin in my mind.

"I'm alone," I whisper. He laughs quietly and goosebumps break out all over my body.

"Is this the part where you tell me that you're touching yourself and thinking of me?" he asks. I blanch. It's disgusting. It's rude. It's so, so inappropriate – it's kind of turning me on.

"I'm going to hang up!" I hiss.

"No! Don't do that. I'm sorry." He sounds sincere, and the line is quiet as we both sit with our thoughts for a minute. "At least you didn't hang up this time," he laughs. I shrug.

"I had enough breath to talk this time. Makes a big difference." Words I would never say to Sam or Freddie, but somehow I feel safe giving them to him. God, he'll be the end of me, I just know it.

"Why did you call, Carly?" he asks. I think about it for a minute.

"I didn't want to be alone." It's an honest answer, if nothing else.

"I'll come over," he says instantly. I sit straight up.

"What? You can't. My brother!" For some reason, I have lost the ability to same more than two words at a time. I hear the hesitation in his breathing.

"Don't do anything rash, or stupid, Carly," he says seriously. "Stay safe. Don't so something stupid tonight. Any kind of thing you'll regret."

"I couldn't even if I wanted to," I say with a roll of my eyes. "I'm on Student Activities Committee. I have to keep it together until at least the Halloween dance on Friday," I laugh bitterly. I think I can hear him smiling into the phone.

"Maybe I'll see you there," he says. The goosebumps are back, and almost against my will I smile. I cradle my phone.

"I didn't know you actually participated in school life," I joke.

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me, Carly." I feel like I should probably be a little afraid of him. But I'm not at all.

I'm absolutely _enthralled._

_

* * *

_

1. Ana – short form for **anorexia nervosa**. A personification of the disease, allowing it to appear less threatening. Many sufferers think of "Ana" as a "best friend", and the only one capable of understanding the sufferer.

2. Mia – used for **bulimia nervosa**; a personification of the disease, making it a " best friend", and the only one capable of understanding the sufferer.

3. Ed – from **ED**, which standings for **Eating Disorder(ed).** Usually crueller than Ana or Mia, appears more like an abusive boyfriend than the underhanded "fremeies" of Ana and Mia.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Thank you for all your lovely reviews - they truly warmed my heart. I continue to welcome your suggestions, thoughts, comments, questions and ideas.


	5. IV: Dressed Up But Still Messed Up

**IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Hey all! First of all, thank you so much for all the comments! I love getting those super-long reviews; it means so, so much to me to know that I'm having such an impact, and really making a difference. Second, in the comments, I received a lot of questions about what makes Ed different from Mia and Ana.

The difference seems to be that while Mia and Ana are seen as friends by people currently in the disease, Ed is seen as an abusive boyfriend, and more often referenced by those in recovery. Part of it may be generational, as pro-ana and pro-mia sites only launched and began to gain traction in about the last five to ten years.

Additionally, the sites we see are pro-_ana_ and pro -_mia_; I have yet to see a pro-_Ed_ site. Ana and Mia are goddesses to young anorexics and bulimics; as Marya Hornbacher says in her famous memoir, _Wasted_, "We turn skeletons into goddesses and look to them as though they might teach us how not to need". These serious diseases because the sufferer's best – and only – friend. Websites are dedicated to "Princess Ana" and feature liturgy about Ana and Mia. Most websites include the Ten Commandments of Ana, Ana's Psalm, and Ana's Creed. They include Latin phrases such as _Rex Ana _("King Ana"), _serva me, Ana _("Save me, Ana") and _quod me nutrit, me destruit_ ("what nourishes me destroys me"), allusions to the Latin used in the Catholic Mass. Hence, Carly's companion is Ana, and she doesn't connect as well with Ed. Carly's eating disorder also stems more from loneliness and longing for a best friend and companion, not feeling romantically or sexually unfulfilled. Hope that helps!

Now, what you're _really_ waiting for:

* * *

IV: Dressed Up But Still Messed Up

* * *

_That paradox would begin to run my life: _

_To know that what you are doing is hurting you, maybe killing you, and to be afraid of that fact—_

_but to cling to the idea that this will save you, it will, in the end, make things okay._

_~ Marya Hornbacher

* * *

_

**31 October 2009**

I skip school the day before the dance.

I'm too tired to live anymore, so I decide I won't bother trying. I merely exist, skidding along on a plateau. I breathe, and I take no joy in it. I move, and I wake, and I sleep, and I take no joy in these things. I could be happy, and instead I run out of the arms of all these loved ones, all these who would call me back from death, from stupor, from madness, to run once again to Ana, mia Ana. Ana is my only friend. Ana will save me. She has to.

Spencer fusses. He makes me soup, and brings me tea in bed. He lets me have complete control of the remote, and sticks to quiet projects. And at the end of the night, we sit on the couch, my head in his lap and him stroking my hair just like our father used and mother used to. I don't know what it is lately about people and my hair, but I can't say I don't like it so I say nothing at all. God, the warmth of Spencer. I want to drown in warmth.

I'm so _cold_ all the time, and I don't know how to deal with it or explain it. It's not the kind of cold that putting on another sweater helps with; the only real cures are boiling hot food and drinks, and burn-yourself hot showers. I sit in the shower sometimes, just breathing, just taking in the heat, trying to remind myself that by some miracle I am, in fact, still alive. And then I wonder how I feel about that.

"You'll always be my favorite," Spencer says with a smile. I blink sleepily, somewhat annoyed at him for interrupting the silence. I was just getting comfortable enough to drift off, and that's so hard lately I resent any interruption. I need absolute silence, and I absolute black, and my mattress always hurts. I toss and turn to no avail, and sometimes it feels like no matter how tired I get, I'll never sleep.

"Hmm?"

"You'll always be my favorite. You know you come before everything, right?" he says. My chest tightens and I wonder where this is coming from, what it means. Did he miss something because of me? Because I was too busy being lazy and I kept him home with my fabricated illness? _Look at what you've done! Spencer and your father have done all this work for you, and what did you give them in return? A lazy, fat, ungrateful sister and daughter_, Ana hisses in my ear. I want to shut myself from her but she's completely inescapable. How does one fight an enemy when the enemy has outposts in your head?

I think Spencer might have been trying to give me a compliment, but it hurts too much for me to truly understand it as such, and all I can hear is _Carly, you're being a burden again_. I want to cry, but instead I focus my mute attention on the lighted screen. I don't want to think about his compliments, or not compliments, or whatever they are. I will not cry. I'm too strong. I will not cry.

"Whatever," I mumble, unsure of how to respond but feeling as though silence would be the wrong response. He doesn't answer back, and the silence between us ripples and then stretches tightighttight, leaving folds of material on eight side of itself. And tension just grows with every word that is not spoken, and something in me cringes and rejects that. I want to hold it all still forever; I must keep it all in perfect equilibrium.

I reject the movement of time, the forward motion of it all. I reject the excess of words brought on by the tension of the silence. I want to stay in one perfect-equal spot forever – I want to over come my very nature, the indefinite definitions of my being, and the shaking atoms that make me up. I want to do the impossible. I want to achieve _absolute stillness_.

"Ser-ri-ous-ly." He stretches the words out, treating each syllable as though it's a word in its own right. The silence shatters on the floor, and I worry if I put a foot out the glass will cut my foot and I'll stain the carpet. Of course, the problem is that now I can't runaway from him either and Spencer why did you have to go and ruin it all?

"I know, Spencer. Don't worry about me." Drifting, floating. The heating pad on my back. I finally sleep, and when I wake up in my bed the next morning, and I have two thoughts:

_How did he carry me here when I'm so fat?_

_Oh god, I hope he didn't notice how skinny I've gotten.

* * *

_

As I get dressed, it occurs to me how much I'm changed. Black circles under my eyes, and my hair is limp. I place my hands on the mirror, splaying my fingers over the silver-and-glass. I wish to be Alice, and to fall into the looking glass.

Running is getting harder. I still wake up early to do the miles, but now sometimes I go to the gym and bike instead, or swim. I've decided to drink Atkins Advantage shakes:

Calories: 150 (= 1.5 mi on the treadmill)

Protein: 15 g.

Protein to sit in my stomach. Protein to keep me full. Protein so I don't think don't live, just float in the in-between-land. I'm hungry. No I'm not. Yes I am.

I arrive at school with my hair blown dry; I can't have it wet from the swimming, it will prompt too many questions. I wear perfume so I don't smell like chlorine, but my skin is so dry and crawls and I feel like I would fall out of my bloody, crackling skin.

"You weren't in school yesterday," Jack comments. I shrug.

"Did I worry you?" I spit back venomously.

"You're going to the dance tonight though, right?" he asks, not looking at me. His face is turned toward the door, and he's watching some freshmen girls giggling around a cell phone.

"Yeah. That's why I'm here right now," I tell him. He turns back to me smiling, and then kisses me again. It's hard this time, but hard with passion, not hard to hurt me. It's like he's trying to seal me, or mark me. I'm happy to be marked; it takes so much effort to keep . . . control that sometimes I just want to say okay, here you go, it's yours, do as you please.

"Good," he says, hand still cupping the side of my face. "I can't wait to see what you're wearing."

"I'm wearing a mask. You might not recognize me," I say back. I expect him to make some comment about how he'll be very pleased if I just show in a mask and nothing else. Instead he laughs and the sound fills the whole room.

"Trust me, I will." When Jack gets that tone, I feel like there's nothing he can't do. And I want to run into those arms, those arms that look so warm and strong, that I'm sure would keep me safe and never let me go.

* * *

Freddie catches me after school by my locker. I jump when I see him, and wonder when I got so bad at noticing things. Freddie shouldn't be able to sneak up on me like that. I almost yell at him, but bite back my tongue at the last second. I don't want him to think I'm becoming forgetful, he might get suspicious.

"What's up?" I ask. He fidgets, not saying anything and looking at his feet. I resist the urge to smack him. My head hurts, and I need to sleep before the dance so it will go away. I can't go out tonight and see Jack and look terrible. Against my will almost, I'm starting to fall for him just a little and I don't want to ruin it. Not when my lips still burn from his kiss, when he's the only thought in my mind. And that's saying something, given that usually all I can think about is food.

"I want to tell Sam I love her. Tonight," he explains. I'm puzzled for a minute, but then it dawns on me. Sam was supposed to come over and get ready with me tonight. It was my turn. It occurs to me that I sound like a bitter divorcee, and while I don't like being mad at Freddie I can't help but feel that he's being unreasonable.

"You're taking her out." It isn't a question.

"Only if you think it's a good time – if it's okay with you," he adds quickly, and I realize he forgot she was even supposed to come over for a minute. I don't say anything for a moment, pretending to be in deep though about Sam's current emotions, when really I'm just trying to rein in my temper.

"No, take her out. Tell her. And then you can dance together all night, it will be really romantic." And besides, I console myself, this way I can sleep longer, and if they're making googly eyes all night they won't ask me any questions. I can spend the entire evening with Jack.

"Really?" He looks like a small child on Christmas morning. "I bought her necklace – what do you think?" He pulls from his pocket a small square red velvet box. I open it, and inside rests a heart on a delicate gold chair. It hangs from the peak of one arch, and a small yellow jewel rests in the peak of the other. I watch it flash as it catches the light.

"Topaz," I say. He nods.

"Her birth stone," he replies. I close the box and hand it back to him wordlessly. "I was thinking about saving it for her birthday next month, but I don't know, I really want to give it to her – "

"Save it for her birthday," I cut him off. "Saying 'I love you' for the first time and jewellery is a little too much. Give her flowers. Give her red lilies," I tell him. He nods, and though he looks at me like I'm a goddess, it's not the same as before. Not the look he gave me . . . he gave me when he loved me. I don't love Fred. But I ache for him to love me again, for some perverse reason. It was all just easier when it was in equilibrium, when things were easy and made sense. Now they're them and I'm me, and it's all up-side down mixed up.

* * *

I tell Spencer my stomach still hurts and go to bed. When I wake up, I take my time with clothes and makeup so I'm just late enough to make Spencer not ask me about dinner. Sam calls once, but I guess Freddie convinced her that it was okay because she hasn't left me any messages. Part of me hates her.

I curl my hair and put on the black dress. It's based on the one Kirsten Dunst wore in _Marie Antoinette_ when she met Count Axel von Fersen. I have this idea that tonight, Jack can be Axel, and I can be Marie. I hide my eyes with a piece of black cloth just like she did, and I can almost say that I look good. Pearls hang from my ears, and they shine prettily. God, I can't wait.

I get a few looks on the street, but I'm too excited to really care. I'm going to a dance. I'm going to dance with _Jack_. I don't care about Sam or Freddie, because I've only eaten 150 calories today and that makes me better than everyone in sight! How little did you take in today? Are you strong? Could you be strong like me? I'm strong; you might think I'm weak, and you can challenge me, but I'm strong, stronger than you or anyone knows. By the time I arrive at school I'm high on starvation.

"Hey, Marie," I say, waving at her as I enter. She's dressed as some sort of fairy, her blond hair everywhere. She smiles, her green eyes light. Her skirt is short and her top is too; what would you expect, she's a cheerleader.

"Carly!" she squeals. She gives me a hug and I awkwardly return it, all the while feeling incredibly claustrophobic. "Yay! Okay, we're going to put up streamers, and then we're going to take the first ticker shift."

We decorate what by day is the cafeteria with black and orange streamers, taping them anywhere they can reasonably go. We have to be careful, because if they fall off someone could slide on them and get hurt, and that would ruin _everything_. Sometimes we just throw them at one another, laughing and just playing around. Brian, Josh and Katie are there too, and later Michael shows up. Josh and Katie are Zombies, and them take turns streaking each other's hair. Marie joins too, and practically purrs when I paint a few magenta streaks in her long thick mane.

"I _love_ it when people play with my hair," she confesses. "I so need a boyfriend who's a hairdresser. Wouldn't that be amazing?" she gushes. I laugh and she giggles in time.

"I'll just take a boyfriend, thank you very much," I quip. She nods.

"At least we get to play the field and dance with everyone though. Can you imagine if your boyfriend is a sucky dancer, and you have to hang out with him all night? Ew," she says, wrinkling her nose. I smile.

"True."

"Ah! I love it!" She twists the piece of hair in her finger, and smiles admiringly at her reflection. "Thanks, Carly, you're such a sweetheart! Let me know if I can ever help you with anything!" she skips off to gush to Katie, and I'm alone. For a moment, I'm caught up staring at my reflection. Everything that died in the last hour is coming back with a vengeance, and my fingers twitch, and grab at the fat that hangs off my body. God, why did I come? I'm too fat to be in public – I –

No. Deep breath. I can't leave now, I have responsibilities. With that in mind I close my eyes, take a breath, and leave the bathroom, trying to fight away the frantic buzzing of my mind. There's no reason this dance can't be fun.

After half an hour of taking tickets, I've paid my dues and I'm free to join everyone else in the gym. I haven't seen Jack, and I'm dying to find him. I want to feel him holding me. I want to feel the press of his hips against mine, and the outline of his lips. I want to be not-Carly, and . . . I kind of want to slut it up a bit. I want his hands on me, I want his lips on my neck, and I want belong to someone and I want the world to know. I want to belong to _him_.

"Marie Antoinette," A voice whispers in my ear, and I shiver, because I know it's him. We're on the outskirts of the dance floor, but I want to be in the middle, the unfindable place where I'm both so visible and not visible at all. I turn, and I see that he's Zorro, and he's wearing the mischievous smile I like so much. "I would have worn something nicer if I'd known I was meeting the French Queen tonight," he teases. I feel myself blush, but darkness makes me bold.

"Come here." And this time, for the first time, I pull him into me. I pull him into the crowd, and I pull him against me. He grabs my hips, pulling me against him. One hand comes to rest on the lowest part of the small of my back, he's almost grabbing my ass. The other is on my upper back, keeping me close to him, trapping me against him. It's dark with the veil over my eyes, dark in the room, and I close my eyes because at this point I might as well. And I _feel_.

It's hot, hot and humid, and I know that the windows are fogging with the sweat of the massed hundreds. His hand trails lower and lower, and when I don't protest his hand is on my ass and I like it. It lets him pull me even more against him. I can feel his hips grinding against mine, feel the heat that burns through me and lights me on fire. I lean into him, letting one hand fall from his neck and run over his chest.

He seizes me with a bruising kiss and I respond in like. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, and we dance. It's hot, and warm, and he tastes like mint and chocolate. A long kiss, and then a series of hard, short ones. Then he attacks my neck, and I arch my head back to allow him it. His teeth dig into the place where my neck meets my shoulder, and then his tongue swirls over the mark. He moves dangerously low, and for a minute I feel the heat of his breath on the tops of my breasts, the bit the dress reveals. But he doesn't go there, and instead he captures my lips again.

I reach down and grab his hips to hold them better against me, and we're going faster now, trying to keep with the beat, except it's really more about the sizzling fire seizing us, the _need_ that sings in our veins. When we pulls apart and I aggressively bite his neck, and he hisses. Just loud enough to be heard, just soft enough so only I can hear it. I grow bolder, trailing up his jaw, tracing his ear, nipping his earlobe. He squeezes my ass and I press myself hard against him for just a moment, because longer than that and we'd fall down.

"Come here," he echoes, and he buries his fingers in my hair, holding my hair so I couldn't escape his kiss if I wanted to. Passionate, and I feel like if I wasn't in a public place I would have taken off all my clothes by now and given myself over to him entirely.

We break apart, and I spin and then my back is to his chest and he's holding my waist, his hips buck into mine and I wonder when I stopped being a good girl, a girl who wasn't into dirty dancing. When did I become a girl who liked grinding, who had heated make-out sessions at schools dances? It doesn't matter. I don't care. I like his nose, his lips, on my neck, my ears.

"You're enjoying yourself," he purrs, and I nod. A deep laugh that bubbles from somewhere deep within him.

"But so are you," I reply breathlessly, arching my back so I reach his ear. He smirks against me.

"Maybe we should spend more time together," he says. It's all I can do to nod. The darkness, the warmth, that craving fulfilled. Human touch, to light me up. He's not looking at anyone else in the room. I'm his. He possesses me entirely and even though I know I shouldn't like it, I do. I like being at the mercy of his hands, the ones that reach up now and for a moment cup my breasts. And now down again, now his fingers tapping on my hips.

"We will. We will. Just don't stop," I plead. Can he know how much I need this moment, this peace, this touch? I would throw him on my bed and do this all night I allowed. I grind hard against him, and feel the responding buck of his hips. And it's the most glorious moment I know, to be here, to dance with him. If the beat goes on, I'll be okay.

Oh Mr. DJ, don't you stop that music.


	6. V: Songbird

V: Songbird

* * *

_Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them? _

_~Rose F. Kennedy_

_

* * *

_

**24 November 2009**

Collapsing is terrifying.

I'm walking up the stairs, in a free period. No one else is around, and the sound of just my footsteps echoing in the hall is disconcerting. I catch sight of my long dark hair, and think about the irony that now, when it's supposed to be falling apart, my dark is at its peak, shiny and soft. I blowdry it in the mornings to keep up the façade of my health, and the compliments have poured in. I curl it with hot curlers, creating soft romantic waves that make everyone glare in envy. I will never get tired of people being jealous of me.

Never.

I run my fingers through the hair, standing there, and then suddenly the world starts going around me. Everything as black as my hair, the spots that dance before my eyes and sing to me. Spinning, spinning, spinning, like a piano song, or like a cello's harmony. I catch my breath, and then down I go.

First my knees give up, shooting out from under me. My head goes back, my hips thrust forward. Boom! I hit the stair, and everything is black black black. Black as midnight, black as my hair. Black enough that I sleep, and when I wake up I gasp into it, fear seizing around my heart. I scramble into sitting, looking around, waiting for the accusing stare the words that will damn me, the words that will force me into getting fat fat fat.

The words never come. No one has caught me; I'm still alone, the only sound my breathing. I slowly pull my backpack on. I stand. _You're an idiot_, I think to myself. _Look how __**fat**__ you are; your poor joints are just giving out, they can't support the weight of your __**lard**__, _Ana hisses. _Insolent, stupid girl. I hope you're going to do better. I hope you're going to stop being such a disappointment,_ she demands. I force myself up the stairs, continuing to the ceramics room, my original destination. I am strong. I am stronger than anyone knows. And one day, they will see how strong I am, and be sorry that I was never allowed to be weak.

* * *

"Carly," Sam says softly, gently. She brushes her hand over mine, and I stare at them, merely seeing. Somewhere along the line, my brain messed up and everything I see does not compute back to my brain. Little spider webs are dangling in my vision, but then I blink, momentarily scattering the dust away. The only problem is that it always seems to come back anyway.

"Carly." Now Freddie is calling me, and I'm starting to think that I should answer, but somehow the words are caught in my throat, and I'm choking on them.

"I'm really tired. I've been so overloaded with projects and tests this week, guys. There's not time to sleep," I say, taking a decisive, brave, _tiny_ little sip of my cappuccino (skim cappuccino, 12 fl. oz: 60 calories).

"You look tired," Sam says with concern. "Hey, boyfriend, can you get me a blueberry muffin?" Sam asks, turning to Freddie.

"Um. Sure," he says. He looks confused, but he trusts Sam. She smiles at him, and watches as he goes to stand in the long line. She turns back to me, but she's not really smiling anymore. Her lips mimic one, but her eyes are too guarded. I begin to tense, and my instinct is to run. Get away.

"What's going on with you and Jack?" she asks, getting right to the point. I blink, caught off guard. I was so ready to defend my eating habits, so ready to spew lies to her about how much I eat, how much I exercise. I was not prepared for this.

"What?" I ask dumbly, feeling rather deer-in-the-headlights. Sam glares at me, and I can see the way the anger ripples through her.

"Oh _come on_, Carly. Everyone knows," she says. I can hear the hurt in her voice, the very small hidden part of her that you wouldn't know was there unless you were close to her. "Everyone saw you at the dance. People have been asking _me_ what's going on with you two, and I haven't had anything to tell them," she whines. "Carly, you're my best friend. We tell each other stuff. Except I don't, because you don't want to hear those things about Freddie," she adds as an after thought. I grimace.

"Give me a minute to clear the bad images out of my mind. _God_, you and Freddie!" I groan. I pull a face, buying time to think.

"I don't talk about it," Sam says defensively. She takes a long sip of her double-chocolate oreo milkshake, and it's all I can do not to shudder in disgust.

"Jack and I were just dancing." _And then we made out in the janitor's closet last week, and I would have let him get to second base but I heard something so we left. And then he's been out of school, and I'm worried about him, and I want to know what's going on, but I'm afraid to ask because I don't want to ruin the one thing making me feel good right now_.

"No one _just dances _like that," Sam scoffs, using air quotes. "You used to tell me stuff like this. What happened?"

My temper flares. I want to scream at her, but I can't. I can't because Carly is a good girl, because Carly does not start fights. I can't because she might hate me, because she doesn't need me anymore when she has Freddie. So I slam down my cappuccino, and she jumps in surprise. Without speaking, I take my coat, my purse. I head for the door, and even when she calls my name I don't look back. I walk and walk until I'm halfway door the street, and then I get dizzy for a moment.

I slip. I fall, and angry red scrapes crop up over my arm. I earn a few glances, but no one stops which is fine because _I don't need anyone_. I get up, hugging my arm close and gritting my teeth in determination. Everything is fine. I press napkins to my arm, making sure the blood does not stain my coat.

I am ninety pounds.

I have come too far to be defeated.

* * *

Sam calls me five times, and Freddie calls me twice before I shut off my phone and close the drawer. I stare at the ceiling, wishing so much I could just leave my head. My head is a dark and scary place – who in their right mind would want to live there?

I get up. I don't know what I'm doing, but quickly it all begins to fall into place. I put on my shoes, take some money. Spencer is sleeping by now, and does not wake up when I open the door and go downstairs. I walk to the convenience store, and blink against the bright industrial lighting. The other people here are as sad and bedraggled as I am.

I take a basket, and begin my frenzy. One box of Oreo cookies. One bag of potato chips. One bag of cheetos. One box of frosted cookies. One box of chocolate-chip peanut butter Chips Ahoy!. Then bags of candy. I buy the Hershey's miniature mix, I buy Reese's peanut butter cups, I buy Mounds and Almond Joys. Snickers. Milky Way. For good measure, I think _what the hell_ and take a box of the fancy chocolates too. Hostess and Entenmanns's. Chunky peanut butter. Swiss cheese.

At the counter, they all stare at me, some with disgust, some with wonder, and one girl with pity. The others look away eventually, but she doesn't.

"Will that be all?" the pimpled cashier asks, having packed my bags. God, I'm salivating.

"Yes. That will be all," I tell him. I give him my best smile and my money. He takes an agonizingly long time counting out my change, and I want to tell him to keep it almost. I need my fix. I need my fix. I need comfort. I need something.

"Here you go." I shove the bills and coins in my pocket. As I take my bags, the girl's voice softly breaks into my thoughts.

"You don't have to do it," she whispers, looking at me in desperation. "You don't." I smile at her. I don't need to say anything.

Finally, home. I kick off my shoes, I dash to my bathroom. I fill a cup with plenty of water, and then I begin my feasts. I chew my food up, and spit it out into the toilet bowl. I hiss when it back splashes, disgusted. I cleanse my mouth with water, making sure I do not swallow a single calorie.

It's fascinating to look at. The water in the toilet bowl is swirled with fat, the oil having risen up. _All the fat you're __**not **__poisoning your body with_, Ana says happily. I moan, and then I open the cheetos. I cram them in my mouth, dirtying my fingers. Then potato chip. Cough it out. Rinse. Spit. Flush. Now chocolates. I crush the Milky Ways under my fingers, then cram them in my mouth. _Peanut butter_, I think. I take giant spoonfuls, cramming my mouth until I can't talk for all the sticky, gooey stuff in there. A sip of water and it all comes back up. Sometimes I catch it in my hands first so I don't have to risk the splash back of toilet water.

Coconut snowballs, their cream sweet in my mouth. Ho-hos. Yodels. Twinkies. And then the Swiss cheese, the savoury taste so good. I _can_ have it all; I can have my cake and eat it too, because when you're not really eating you're not getting fat, and you're not getting full, so you can always just have more and more and more. For a few minutes, I feel as though I'm the queen of the world.

But then the food is gone, and I'm sitting with the wrappers, and all I feel is disgusted.

* * *

"You need to be on your best behaviour." Spencer tries to sound parent-like, but it's not very effective given that, well, it's Spencer. Still, he has surprised me these past couple of days. He cleaned the house, got rid of the more experimental art pieces, made every effort to say _Look I have everything together_. He's wearing clean, pressed clothes that he just got at Banana Republic. I'm wearing a dress.

"Grandpa!" I shriek as he appears in the doorway. He smiles, and holds his arms out to catch me in a hug. I laugh, and even though I'm so tired I give him a dazzling grin. I did extra swimming yesterday to make up for being trapped today. It was exhausting, but worth it. I am strong. I am eighty-nine-and-a-half. And swimming, swimming feeling weightless beautiful, nothing mattering once I'm in the water and no one is looking at me anymore.

"Hey, Carly." His eyes have become more guarded now, and I sense he is holding something back. "Spencer." He nods in my brother's direction, and Spencer gives him a smile. Thing never have been the same between them. "So, shall we eat?"

"I've got it all laid out right here. Carly and I cooked it," Spencer says, leading my grandfather to the table. "A feast like this only comes once a year."

_Except for last night. I have a feast last night_, I think. I gathered all the wrappers, stuffed them in the bags I had carried the food in, and threw them out downstairs so Spencer would not see anything, and would have nothing to question. "Dig in. I hope everyone is hungry!"

We take our seats. Grandpa and Spencer load up, while Ana makes sure I stay well within her control. I cut my food up and move it around my plate so it looks like I've eaten more. I avoid the fattening gravy, the buttery potatoes. I'm afraid to take even a bite. I'm afraid of everything.

_You're being good, doing fine,_ Ana soothes. _Don't take the first bite. Have no problem._ I drink my water, hoping to fill myself with the weight of wishing.

"Carly's very skinny," my grandfather criticizes. "Spencer, have you been taking care of her?" My brother flushes.

"I let Carly eat what she wants. I mean, I try to give her healthy options. I don't, like, have only junk in the house. Not that there's anything wrong with junk food now and again." He bites his lip, fear in his dark eyes.

"Eat something." There is a storm in my grandfather's face. He dares me to defy him, so I square me shoulders and meet his eye.

_You will not control me. _

"I'm not hungry," I say evenly. His face contorts, and it's like looking into the face of an angry God.

"I have every right to take her," he hisses at Spencer. "Look at her! Can't you see how skinny she is? She isn't eating properly, she's probably sick, and you haven't paid her any attention. She could have Crohn's disease. Don't you pay attention, or are you too busy fucking around?" my grandfather asks. I howl in anger and stand up. Both of them look at me as I grab the bowl of sweet potatoes, shoving a half in my mouth.

"Look! Carly's eating! Carly's eating!" I shriek. I slam down the bowl, glaring at them as they stare back at me. "I'm going out."

"Carly!" I don't know who says it, and I don't care as I take my coat and leave. A storm has come, grabbing my life and tearing it apart until I couldn't recognize it anymore. They will not take Ana from me. They will not kidnap and murder my only true friend.


	7. VI: Tonjours Ma Cherie

VI: Tonjours Ma Cherie

[Always My Dear]

* * *

_Often, a person will be anorexic for a while, then they will discover bulimia, and they will think they are cured of anorexia. _

~ Terry Sandbek

* * *

**17 December 2009**

Eighty-seven pounds.

* * *

I don't know what's happening anymore.

I'm sitting in a corner of the library, trying to catch my breath, my knees curled up to my chin. I'm wearing long underwear under my jeans. I'm wearing a tank top, two long-sleeved shirts, a hoodie over it and _I'm still cold_. I tuck my arms in, heating them against my thighs. I smile when I glimpse the light in the middle. _That's how legs are supposed to look. Space between the thighs_.

We're having the coldest winter in my memory. God, I wish it would snow. If it snowed, then I would be free. I got an F on a test. I was able to retake it, make it up, but the fact that I ever got an F is unsettling. I remember that test; I remember sitting there, sitting to my stomach. I began planning my feast in my mind. The one I was going to eat when I got skinny and didn't have to diet anymore. I've decided that I want a red velvet cupcake. I would do _anything_ for a red velvet cupcake.

I see the red velvet cupcakes when I go to starbucks and get my venti green tea. They're so beautiful. But I looked them up on the website, and I realized I could never eat one. Unless I cut it into quarters and ate one quarter a day as my only food. Then, maybe, I could have a red velvet cupcake. Except I couldn't, because it's too scary.

"Carly." I looked up, face burning bright with humiliation. Of course Jack is there. Of course, Jack is standing there like a god, looking at me with those eyes that can cut into my soul. "What are you doing here?"

"Being anti-social."

"Hmm." There's mischief, playfulness in his eyes. "Well, I'm going to be anti-social with you, if you don't mind." Without waiting for my answer, he sits down next to me. He puts his arm around me, and I fall into his embrace without further question. He holds me as I shiver, wrapping me so tight that I would think he means to pull me into his own body.

I bury my nose in that place where his neck meets his shoulder, and I inhale deeply. He smells like Old Spice deodorant, with soap underlying it. His skin is soft, perfect for me to nuzzle. I kiss his neck, and he laughs quietly. "What's wrong?"

I hesitate. I want to speak – to speak, perchance to confess all the thoughts that haunt my head, to say all the things that have been building up in me. I want to tell him about how I have nightmares of eating too much, and when I wake up I feel dirty and like I need to go to the gym. I want to tell him how hungry I get, how I lie on my bed at night, eyes bugged out, clutching my stomach and biting my lip so I don't cry out. _You are not hungry_, Ana hisses. _There's too much fat on this body, there's something to eat. You __**can't**__ be hungry, Carly. You are not hungry_.

I want to tell someone – anyone – about the way the numbers constantly preoccupy my head, like I'm possessed. I can't do my math homework without thinking about calories. Every graph I draw, I'm thinking about the lines of my weight. Every problem I do, I'm thinking about grams of fat, of calories. If Jane eats an apple (50) instead of a cupcake (450) how many calories does she save? Answer: 400 _but it doesn't matter because eating fifty calories means Jane is still a failure and weak._

"I'm so hungry," I whisper to him. "God, Jack, I'm so fucking hungry I could eat the table."

* * *

All hell breaks loose.

I start crying. The tears pour out of me like a storm, and it's all I can do not to make too much noise, draw attention to myself. Jack just wears this grimace like he just swallowed something bad. But he sits there, wiping the tears that wash down my face. I can tell that he knows what I mean; he knows what I mean by admitting I'm hungry.

"Carly," he whispers. "Carly." He grabs me and kisses me hard, invading my mouth and gripping my arms. It feels like he's trying to suck my soul out. I moan into it, but my voice hitches on the tears. I have to pull away from him so I can catch my breath and stop myself from crying out.

"Jack," I whimper. I don't know what I what to say. I don't know what there _is_ to say. The words are stuck in my throat like a too big bite of food. I hug my arms into myself, and he pulls them away, taking my small hands in his big ones.

"Come on," he says gently. He tugs me up, and I willingly follow. I'm too lost now, too far gone. Black swirls in my vision when I stand, but I ignore it. With much focus, I'm able to coltishly put one leg in front of the other. I feel shaky, and Jack seems to understand. He wraps an arm around my waist, guiding me out with a firm grip. The wind hits me hard and I shiver against the cold.

"What are you doing? Where are we going?" I ask. Yet I don't fight him. I don't even stop. I try to keep pace, even though it's so very difficult.

"Out."

"Jack, we have school."

"Fuck school," he says nonchalantly. Part of me wants to protest. I sense that I am holding onto the last vestiges of my old self, the self before Ana. If I cross my line, I won't really be me anymore. I'll be unrecognizable.

"Okay," I agree. We're in the parking lot now. He helps me into the passenger seat of his Hyundai, careful to make sure I don't fall and hurt myself. He closes the door firmly, and then slides into the driver's seat. A blast of heat hits me as he turns on the car.

"There's a diner I like on Falls," he says. Panic begins to set in. I watch the fading school with horror in my eyes, and I would claw myself out of this car to get back.

"I won't eat!" I shriek at him. "I don't want your food! Take me back! Take me back now!" It's like a bird in my stomach, shrieking and flapping its wings about. I want to start crying because I'm so scared, so absolutely terrified. "Please, you can't do this to me. Take me back to school," I beg him. He shakes his head. He reaches for my hand, but I slap it away.

"I'm just going for me. You don't have to do anything," he says, staring intently at the road. I scream as he makes a sharp turn, and he squeezes my hand. "Calm down, Carly."

I can't be calm. Nothing makes me more un-calm than food. It's the nightmare enemy, the thing I spend so much time avoiding. It takes all the self-control I have to invert my panic, to bring myself down. All the while Jack's hand is my lifeline, the only thing that keeps me on earth. If not for his anchor, I would float up and away, never to return.

We pull up to the diner. My stomach howls in desire. Jack parks the car smoothly, and drags me into Hell. My mouth water. My knees buckle. At the very front, there's a giant display of cakes and pies. I feel as though I could eat an entire cake all by myself. The hunger rips and roars through me, each wave crashing over me and consuming me whole. I must hold my breath, wait for the wave to pass and stop myself from doing anything while I'm in the wave and incapable of making a good decision.

"Two for lunch," Jack says. The waitress nods. She leads us back, and hands us the menus. I entertain myself looking at the desserts and feeling superior and horrified as I read the descriptions. Jack is totally absorbed.

"What can I do for you? Ready to order?" the waitress asks, returning. Her name tags says she's called Agnes.

"Carly?" Jack asks, looking at me. I swallow.

"A cup of coffee," I say. She nods and looks expectantly to Jack. His face is set, as though he has just made a decision.

"I want an order of the chocolate chip pancakes. Scramble the eggs. And a strawberry milkshake. And a glass of water. And for dessert . . . for dessert, a slice of the carrot cake and a bowl of vanilla ice cream, please," he says. My eyes widen at his list. Agnes's don't.

"Gotcha." She takes our menus and walks away, her pad slipped back into the safety of her apron. I look at Jack.

"I'm – nevermind," he says.

"I'm not eating any of that. I hope that wasn't part of your plan. You could have at least asked me if I even liked any of that," I shoot back. He laughs coldly. The sound surprises me, and sends goosebumps down my spine.

"I'm not sharing," he barks. "If you want food, you can order your own."

"What – ?" It's too late to ask. The waitress has returned with our drinks. Jacks immediately begins drinking. I watch him sucking down the huge milkshake, marvelling that he can put it in his body. Marvelling at his speed.

"It's good," he says. His voice is slightly slurred, as though drunk. His eyes are roiling, disconnected from me – from everything. "Really good." Another giant sip.

"Um, okay." I'm still uncomfortable. The pancakes come. He eats the eggs, slathering them with sugary maple syrup. Then he begins the pancakes, coating them with butter.

"Bring the check when you can," Jack tells Agnes when she comes with the carrot cake and ice cream. She takes the empty plate and milkshake glass. Jack chugs his entire glass of water, and then descends on the carrot cake. He moans as he goes through it. Next it's the ice cream. He pauses for half a minute to take out his wallet and slam some money on the table. All the while, I've barely had two sips of my now-cold coffee.

"Jesus," I whisper, staring at the ruins of lunch. Jack groans, and look at me through half-lidded eyes.

"Come on. God, my stomach hurts."

"But – where are we – "

"Carly, I said _come on_," he begs. I don't know what to tell him. I'm scared and confused; I don't know what I just saw. This isn't the Jack I've come to know, the Jack who's cool, who's always got a glint in his eyes and a smile on his face. This isn't the Jack who stays in control – the Jack who has kept _me_ in control. This is some other animal and it's as though I'm seeing him for the first time.

"Fine," I whisper. He nods, grunts. We head out the door, and just as I think we're going to the car he turns, heading down a nearby alley. I follow, shivering the whole time. "What the fuck, Jack? It's freezing!" I scream as he approaches the dumpster.

"This won't take long." He's standing over the dumpster now, on the stairs above it. I watch in macabre fascination as he sticks two fingers down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he makes a wet choking sound. His body convulses. He leans over, and I hear a wet splat as the vomit hits the bin. After a few minutes, the vomit is pink, and then finally it runs clear. Jack coughs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Carly, go get the water from my car. It's unlocked."

Without really meaning to, I obey. I find the bottle under the driver's seat, and I wordlessly hand it over to him back in the alley. He rinses and spits, gargles and spits as though baptising himself, cleansing himself of the entire mess. The alley is eerily quiet. "Thank you," he whispers.

My head is spinning. Slowly, unnaturally, the words come to me, and reality hits me and crushes me. Jack is bulimic. I just watched him binge and purge. The words don't sound right in my head, and I knock them around until they're entirely out of order and make less sense. Because it can't be true, can't be real. It just doesn't work. I can't understand it.

"Do you do this often?" I finally asks. He shrugs.

"I don't know. I wish I could have saved you," he says mournfully. "Gotta admit though, kind of glad to have you here." He smiles, and I wonder how he keeps his teeth so white when he vomits all the time.

"Don't you want to brush your teeth?" It's such a stupid question. There are so many more, so much more pressing. When did it start? Does it hurt? Why do you do this? Why me? Why now?

"It's bad for them. Just rubs the acid in, makes them rot," he replies. He smiles wryly. "You see, Carly – I get hungry too," he says. I just nod. Tears for both of us spill down my cheeks. "Hey," he says softly, cupping the side of my face. "Hey. Hey there. Carly. Don't cry," he whispers, cradling my face in his hands. I hiccup, and I try to choke it all back but I can't.

"We're so sad," I whisper. "Look at us. Look how fucked up we are." I throw my arms around him, hugging him tightly as though to break him and release whatever bad thing it is that makes him hurt so much.

* * *

"You skipped school!" Sam shouts as I come through the door. I blink in surprise. _She's not supposed to be here,_ I think dizzily. My head is still spinning from Jack. I napped in his car after we left the alley. He was playing Mozart and looking out the window when I woke up. I picked up my books at school, terrified the whole time that someone would see me and yell at me. But no one did, and I just slipped back home.

"I did not," I lie. "I was at a doctor's appointment." Sam's face turns red and her eyes flash dangerously. I take a step back.

"I covered for you all afternoon," she says in a low voice. "Freddie, tell her. Tell her!" she shrieks, turning and yelling at him. He flushes guiltily, and rubs the back of his neck.

"Carly, we were worried. It's not like you," he says. I feel every muscle in my body tense.

"You don't know me," I hiss. "You don't know anything about me. Jack knows me," I say. Sam slaps me across the face, and I see stars.

"Bitch," she hisses. I straighten, drawing myself to my full height, trying to look intimidating even though I'm shorter than her.

"Get out of my house," I say, unable to keep a trace of smugness from my voice. Conflicting emotions fly across her face, and I can tell she's torn between wanting to beat me to a pulp and beg me to talk to her. Pride, I suspect, will win.

"I thought we were best friends," she says quietly. They she pushes back, storming into the hall. Freddie looks after her, hopelessly torn.

"Carly –" he begins. I've had quite enough. I go to the kitchen, grab a plate, and throw it at him. He yelps and jumps away, watching as it shatters into pieces at his feet. "What the hell?"

"Get out," I order coldly. He doesn't need to be told again. He leaves after her, and I'm left to cry as I clean up the pieces. On my way upstairs, I faint, and when I wake up, it's gotten dark out.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Questions? Comments? Thoughts? Please review! Thank you so much for coming this far with me!


	8. VII: Lovers and Losers

VII: Lovers and Losers

* * *

_Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. _

_Love never fails. _

_~ 1 Corinthians 13:4

* * *

_

_Anorexia is like a game: You play, you win, and then it's over. _

_Or you keep playing until you lose._

_- Unknown, from a pro-ana website.

* * *

_

**7 January 2010**

"Please don't," I whisper. Jack winces. He grabs my hands, and leans his forehead against mine. We stare down, and I think of how bony my wrists are. _Things were not always this way,_ whispers some voice in the back of my mind. I ignore her.

"This isn't healthy," he replies, drawing me back to reality. "You need food. You'll do better in class and everything if you just get something to eat," he promises.

I glance at the yogurt, sizing it up like a general the enemy. It's me and the yogurt, and neither of us is stepping down no matter how I will it to self-combust and deprive me of this miserable nightmare. I look to Jack, and he grips my hands tighter. No good. Dammit. I take a deep breath, trying to sooth myself. _I can't do this_. Look at the yogurt again. _NO._

"I'm _scared_," I confess. I shake, and a single tear slides down my cheek. Jack kisses my eye, and I start to cry harder. "I'm afraid of it all. I can't get fat, Jack," I wail, looking at him and begging him to understand. He swallows, and I watch the conflict tear across his face. He doesn't want to do this to me.

"I know," he says at last. "When I was at Belle Verde, though, they used to make us eat Poptarts as a snack. Two of them. I cried like a baby every time. It was really attractive." He laughs quietly and I join him even as I continue to cry. "It's a yogurt. One hundred calories. I know you can eat it," he whispers. I snort.

"You're such a hypocrite," I reply.

"No. I eat. I just make no promises about keeping it down," he quips. I roll my eyes at him.

"What you're doing is worse, you know," I say. "The human body is built to withstand starvation. No food. It's not meant to withstand frequent vomiting. Vomit is an emergency-situation-only type deal. For if you eat something poisonous or something like that. So actually, you're fucking yourself up even more than I am," I reply viciously. "You're going to get a Mallory-Weiss tear."

"Shut up," he hisses. "I know damn well what I'm doing, Carly. I was anorexic too, you know. I just got hungry."

"_Good _Anas don't get hungry," I snap. "I'm not eating it." I get up to walk away but he yanks me back.

"The hell you're not!" he huffs. "Eat it. _Now_," he orders. He opens the yogurt, digs the spoon it, and pushes it against my lips. I roll my lips in over my teeth, keeping them tightly sealed against the offending food.

He's not having any of that. He grabs me by the waist, and then snakes the arm up to grab my jaw, pulling at it and knocking at the hinge to make me open it. I'm so angry I open my mouth to yell at him, and he moves in for the kill. I choke on the sweet, creamy taste. It tastes like pain.

"I hate you!" I shriek. I slap him across the face, and he shakes it off.

"I don't care," he replies. "You can hate me as much as you like as long as you survive." I glare at him. "Now, are you going to eat the rest yourself or do I have to feed you again?"

"Fuck you."

"I'd like that. Would that be a good incentive?" he asks. He's still holding me, and I'm suddenly aware of the heavy heat of his arm. I raise an eyebrow provocatively, then give him a coy smile and move in for a kiss. He pulls away. "Food first."

"Fine." Jack one, Carly zip. I'll stay up late exercising to make up for this transgression. If he thinks he's won, he's sadly mistaken. This is only the first battle.

It's strange to eat the yogurt. I've grown accustomed to a strict diet of vegetables with the occasional fruit, and lots of hot, caffeinated drinks. Dairy was forbidden. Too much sugar. Too much fat. Too many calories. Wrong, bad, no, unacceptable. Now, as a strawberry slips down my throat it's unnerving. It's _unnatural_. I want to spit it out, but Jack is watching me.

I have to stop several times to cry and breathe and have him hug me. I hate this. I hate him for making me do this. He says I _have_ to eat more. _It's dangerous, _he tells me_, you can't loose any more weight. You'll die. You'll lose. You need nutrients. Vitamins. _I can just barely see his point about nutrients. I'm willing to go with him on maintenance. Just to see. Just to see what happens. If I can be okay. _Good Anas don't die,_ I've reminded myself. I just have to adjust a few things, make some room for this in my life. Or I could become a bulimic like Jack, and solve all of our problems.

"Done," I finally tell him, unhappily showing him the empty container. He smiles, light in his eyes, and then he grabs me into a kiss, dipping me back in the chair. It's a good thing he's supporting me, because I would swoon if he wasn't. Jack usually tastes like mint and acid, from the vomiting and the masking. But I lately there are some changes, and he tastes like warm cinnamon cookies. When he tastes like that, I can kiss him for hours. Last week he came over and I just sat on his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist, and I kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.

Today, he doesn't fail to perform. He attacks my neck, my ear, the hollow where my shoulders slopes and he whispers how beautiful I am, what I do to him. _Drive me wild want it need god you're gorgeous God you're fantastic you're so dazzlingly perfect I really don't deserve you my sweet goddess girl … _

He opens me like a key to a lock. And sometimes, when it shouldn't, my mind wanders and I wonder how he might otherwise fit me. And I think, _there's something worth living for_. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad to do it with him, even if it means I'll have to take my clothes off and let him actually see me. Maybe it would actually be good. Be . . . fun. I burn with need of him and I want to hug him so tight that he becomes a part of my soul. Because when I look at him, I see hope.

"I want to tear your clothes off," he whispers in my ear. I blush and as much I don't want to I pull from him slightly.

"Hardly the time or place," I counter. He grunts, and he grabs my head to pull me back into another long, steamy kiss. "You taste like strawberries today," he notes. I look at him quizzically.

"What do I usually taste like?"

"Ketones," he replies without missing a beat. I frown, but before I can say anything footsteps interrupt us.

"I though I might find you here." Sam stands in the doorway, Freddie faithful as a bitch by her side. Annoyance shoots through me.

"I though you had history next period," I say unevenly, untangling myself from Jack. Her eyes dart at him, and she looks at him like he's something she found on the bottom of her shoe.

"I do," she replies. "But Freddie and I were talking at lunch, and we wanted to extend a invitation to you two to go on a double date tonight," she says. I have to hand it to Sam. Freddie's reformed her, though she'll die before she admits it. This new Sam is more cautious, slower. She's more likely to use her words first, although she'll still use her fists when necessary. If she wasn't turning it on me so much, I might admire it.

"Sounds great. Eight work for everybody?" Jack quips before I can reply. Sam looks taken aback, but I see relief on Freddie's face.

"Definitely. Groovy Smoothie?"

"A man after my own heart. And one who must have read my bank statement," Jack laughs. He nudges me and I grimace at the way the pain explodes through my side.

"Yeah," I mumble. "Okay." I am going to _kill_ Jack. Who is he to put me in proximity with all that _food_?

"Seriously, it is alright with you?" Sam presses, looking at me with concern. _Oh, you finally noticed that I'm on death's door?_ I want to ask.

"It's fine, Sam. Groovy Smoothie at eight," I snap. Concern vanishes and her look hardens into annoyance.

"Fine," she huffs. "Come on, Freddie, I'm going to be for history." She grabs his wrist and begins dragging him out. He sighs.

"See you Carly. Jack," he calls out to us. I watch them go, and once they're out of earshot I whip around to face Jack.

"What the hell was that?" I asked him. He looks surprised, and I feel a pang of guilt for yelling at him.

"I thought they were your friends. I though you would be happy?" he says. I open my mouth to reply, but he's not done. "Anorexia robs you of your friends and your social life. Don't let it do that. Don't let it isolate you," he lectures. I want to punch him.

"Do _not_ lecture me about the dangers of anorexia," I growl. "They're my friends. I'll make a decision. I'm tried. Sam's been annoying me. And I really don't feel well."

"You just don't want to be around the food and have people watching you to make sure you're eating," he shoots back. I meet his look with one of my own.

"You just want lots of food around to binge and purge on," I counter. His face turns red. "Buy a bunch of cookies and stuff, right?"

"At least I get some nutrition," he says.

"At least _I'm_ not going to rupture my esophogus and bleed to death." And once again, we're at a stalemate, too proud and strong for give up on the friends that would control us, kill us, given half a chance.

Ana and Mia:

There for you when no one else is, huh?

* * *

I go through every dress I own trying to figure out one to wear, but they all emphasize how fat and disgusting I am. I toss them in a pile on my bed, and I yell in frustration. I hate getting dressed. Anything other than yoga pants and a hoodie and I have no desire to wear it. I hate the way my body looks in clothes. I hate the way I'm so fat, so overweight god does it kill me.

"What are you _doing_?" Spencer calls. "It sounds like there's a tornado in the room from everything you're throwing around!"

"I have nothing to wear!"

"What are all those clothes I buy you? Curtains?" I roll my eyes. Honestly, he doesn't get it. I should have had a sister. No, I should have had a mother. "I hope you'll be alright by yourself. I'm going to a gallery, I'm going to be out late," he continues. My mind flashes to lunch with Jack, and I consider taking him back here. _Hmm. Now there's a thought_, smiles some part of me. I blush even though no one's heard my thinking.

"I'll be fine, Spence," I assure him. With a sigh, I finally pick out a pair of jeans and a gray sweater. I layer a cardigan over my sweater and pair it with a scarf, and after a moment of debate I put tights on under my jeans. There. That should keep me from getting too cold.

I can tell I'm getting weaker because it's getting harder to walk the blocks to the Groovy Smoothie, and the icy wind cuts me like a spurned lover. I have to wonder when it got so cold, even though I know that it's because I'm not enough to protect myself anymore. The small rational part of me tells me that I need to eat more, and gain weight, and that the cold and dizzy and the _complete_ inability to focus and irritation will all go away if I eat, but she is quickly silenced by her own mad frenzy after a few hours of starvation. So the system continues to work, and I'm left well enough alone to not eat as I please.

The iCarly shoots are more difficult to get through, and the viewers are starting to notice though. There's always one comment about how skinny I am. I delete any that I think might give Sam and Freddie any cause for alarm. There's no need to make them worried. Or more to the point, I don't want them to worry because someone pointed something out to them. I want them to figure it out all by their damn selves.

"Carly," Jack says, waving me over to where he, Sam and Freddie are sitting. Sam looks pleased to see me, and she gives me a big smile. I smile back and give a little wave as I cross the room to join them. "Among the three of us we ordered for you," Jack informs me. My smile tightens across my face.

"Thanks," I say through tight teeth. I glare at him, and he smiles back. Out of the corner of my eye, the light in Sam's face flickers. I sit down and focus my attention on Sam and Freddie.

"So FredWonder and I were just telling Jack about what it's like when we go shopping," Sam says. I look at Jack.

"Apparently they spent their entire time at the mall complaining about how neither of them wanted to be there," Jack filled me in. "They were buying a birthday present for Freddie's mom. Would you try some of my smoothie? It's delicious," he says. I glare hatefully at him but oblige, knowing I'm being watched. I take a tiny sip. "Take more than that, Carly! It's too good to miss out on." I swear I heard a maniacal laugh in his voice. I took a long sip of his chocolate chai milkshake, and I find that the hunger comes with eating because this time, I don't want to stop. I force myself to. _Self-control is the most important thing_.

"I always help you pick out a birthday present for your mother," I say accusingly. The scene freezes. Freddie gets a guilty look on his face, the one his gets when he's been caught in a lie or is being forced to make a decision where none of his options are any good. I'm well aware of how I'm putting him there, but I don't care anymore. I'm too hurt and too angry.

"You didn't answer your phone. You were sleeping. And – Sam's my girlfriend," he says bluntly. I shove myself away from the table. "Carly! I'm sorry!" Too bad.

I run to the bathroom. I enter the stall, and I very decisively shove two fingers down my throat. I choke. I gag. Spit flies everywhere, but nothing actually comes up. I clench the muscles in my stomach like I'm trying to belch, but still nothing comes up. I want to scream. To top it off, my phone goes off and I hear Sam's frantic voice as she enters the bathroom.

_Carly – please be safe_.

Jack wants me to be safe? I snarl and hit REPLY. Oh I'll give him safe. This whole thing is all his fault, the asshole. And to think I was considering fucking him tonight. I wipe my spitty fingers on my jeans.

"Carly, please come out and talk to me like we used to. Please tell me what's wrong with you, I'm so worried," Sam begs. I shut her voice out. _If you cared, you would know what's wrong. You wouldn't let me do this. What's been taking you so long anyway? Aren't you supposed to be my friend_? I wonder angrily. I punch the numbers on my phone and ignore Sam.

_Don't worry, Jack. _

_Unlike you, no matter how far I stick *my* fingers down *my* throat, I still can't puke.

* * *

_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Please, please, please review! I really want to know what you think of this story. Questions? Criticisms? Comments? Predictions for coming chapters - things you might want to see? Ideas for coming chapters? I welcome it all! Please give me your feedback! I appreciate it so much! And of course - thanks for getting this far with me, guys.


	9. VIII: Paper Doll

VIII: Paper Doll

_Nothing tastes as good as thin feels._

_- Quote from pro-ana sites, sometimes attributed to Kate Moss

* * *

_

**26 February 2010**

Ninety pounds.

* * *

"I can't bear to watch you," Sam finally says. She stares at me with big, terrified eyes, her hands shaking. I look behind me, and notice Freddie has put down his camera. He looks ashamed, and can't meet my eye. Immediately, white-hot fear washes over me and sets my whole body on fire. My shame flashes bright.

"What?" I asked, trying not to let my feelings show. Sam blinks, and I don't understand. Was she – is she – are those _tears?_ Sam doesn't cry. Not unless something really bad is happening. Sam doesn't – Sam doesn't cry. She doesn't.

"You look like a skeleton," she whispers, fear flashing across her face. "I can't even watch it. I've been trying – I've in denial, I guess. I don't know. God, Carly. You have a problem!" she screams.

It's like someone dumped a buck of ice water over my head, drenching me down to my very bones. Coolth hits me all over, like I have ice for blood now. I feel dizzy. I can't breathe. I can hear my heart beating, fast and faster and I want to run, get away to somewhere or anywhere. I can't do this. I won't do this. I've already been getting so fat, Jack's been making sure of that. She's going to make me eat. She's going to make me eat and then I'm get fat and I can't, can't, _can't_.

"Thanks, Sam," I say, throwing as much sarcasm into the statement as I can muster. She lets out a howl of indignation and it shakes me. I step back, and look to Freddie. He still refuses to meet my eye.

"You have a problem!" she screams again. She stamps her foot, and the whole loft shakes. "I won't take no for an answer, Carly! You have a problem. You have to eat. You have to start eating, do you hear me?" she cries. She comes over to me, and I steel myself, expecting her to hit me. Instead she throws her arms around me and wraps me in her arms, her whole body shaking.

"Sam . . ."

"I can feel all your bones," she whispers, running her hands over my ribs through my shirt. I shiver at the sensation, and am torn between loving and hating the feeling. I awkwardly hug her back instead. "You're so sick," she whimpers, burying her face in my shoulder.

"I'm okay," I whisper back, shaking my head. "I'm really okay, Sammy," I repeat, trying to soften her with a pet name. She shakes her head against me.

"You're so sick. You scared me when we were doing the Random Dancing," she replies. "I was just watching you, and I thought, how can she even more on those little twig legs? And it just hit me all at once. You're so skinny. You've _been_ so skinny. I feel like I could crush you right now. You're so fragile," she says.

"She's right," Freddie says, finally daring to look up. I twist to look at him, hissing as Sam cling harder to me.

"I'm fine," I repeat, but the words are beginning to sound false even to my own ears. "I'm fine."

"A strong breeze would blow you away," Freddie says, looking at me with sad eyes. "You need help."

"No, I don't!" There's a sharpness to my voice that seems to surprise both of them. "Seriously, you guys, be reasonable," I scold them.

"You need this," Freddie says. He crosses the room, heading for his backpack. I watch as he pulls something out, papers I can see in a minute. Then he comes over to us, and Sam pulls away from me so he can push them into my arms.

"What is this?" I ask, looking over the papers yet not reading them. The words are blurring before my eyes, my hands are shaking.

"This is a place where you can get help," Sam soothes, placing a gentle hand on my arm. "What do you say, cupcake?" I glare at her.

"I say I'm not anorexic, so I don't need to be locked in an eating disorders clinic." I shove the papers into her hands. "I'm okay. I'm really okay." I wonder if I say that often enough, if I might even begin to believe it.

* * *

"You've made me fat," I say accusingly. Jack looks over at me in surprise. We're sprawled across the sofa in Jack's basement, his tv blaring. I haven't been able to focus on the movie at all. Instead, I stare at my huge thighs. It's the strangest sensation; on the one hand, I must be thin because there's space between my thighs – and that's good thing, that's a _thin_ thing. But my legs are still _enormous_. It's a miracle of medicine. I should be on a TLC show. Oh, I can also be on TLC for the fact that I seem to be fat even though I eat less than some starving people.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, rubbing his temples. I sigh and consider that it would easier to talk to him if I sat up and took my head out of his lap. But that would require energy, and my reserves are rather low.

"I've gained three pounds," I moan. "I'm so _fat_. It's disgusting." I poke my stomach and shudder at the way it wobbles. He gently pulls my hand away.

"You hate it when I puke. I hate it when you starve," he says. I frown, wishing there was some way to twist out of this logic.

"You need to see a dentist. I want you to see about your teeth," I tell him. He pulls a face.

"What for? I already know my teeth are shot. And don't tell me I need to see a gastroenterologist. I'm sure my esophagus is shot too. Hurts enough," he complains. This is enough to finally pull me from my apathy.

"Let me see," I demand. He sighs and tries to push me away.

"Carly, you're not going to be able to determine anything about my throat by looking in my mouth, I know that much. You need one of those tube things with the cameras," he says. "And I don't need to gain weight anyway. You do."

"Seriously, this is the ultimate case of do what I say, not what I do," I huff. He sighes, then buries his nose in the crook of my neck. His scent hits me, overpowering me and I want to stay there forever. "Sam and Freddie talked with me," I tell him, shifting so that we're lying side by side and I'm comfortably in his arms, enjoying his warmth.

"What?" His eyes are open and alight with interest. I keep a firm grip on his arms, daring him to let me go.

"They wanted to send me away," I whisper. A tremor shakes my whole body, and Jack holds me very close as I shake in his arms like the last leaf of autumn in the wind that smells of winter. "They wanted me to go away, and get fattened up at an eating disorders clinic." I try to laugh, but the sound is too panicked and strangled. It sounds scratching against my ears. It sounds like a sob. "They can't do that," I cry.

"Shhh," he soothes, holding me close and cradling me in his arms. "Carly. Carly," he says, stroking my hair as I shake and shake in his arms. "Oh, Carly." His kisses my forehead, and it sets a fire in me. I will pull myself out of these bones. I will get away from this body.

I capture his lips with mine, kissing him with everything I am. I roll us over, pushing him down so he's under me and he won't escape. One hand is on his chest, the other burying itself in his hair and holding his head in place. His hands are on my waist, and the heat is pleasant – I've been so cold this winter.

I press my tongue into his mouth and thrash it against his, frenzied with need of a response. I kiss him like I'm trying to steal his soul. I kiss him with my whole mouth, with my teeth, to bruise him and mark him and make him my own. His hisses as I nip his lips and I grin into the kiss. My need does not stop there. I kiss his jaw, I kiss his neck. I suck the tender skin, leaving a trail of red-purple marks so that everyone will know that he belongs to someone, that he is _mine_.

Then his hands are sliding under my shirt, yet still just resting on my waist. I slide my hands under his, splaying my hands over chest. His hisses at the feeling of my hands on his nipples and helps me pull his shirt over his head.

"I want this," I hiss, feeling like a powerful goddess as I hover over him. "Go there with me." He merely nods, and I hungrily kiss him again before I begin pulling over my shirt.

"God, Carly," he says again as we fumble to take my bra off. He's trying to be gently as he cups my breasts, the heat of his fingers making my whole body hot. I grind my hips against his, and he groans, his head falling back.

I'm the aggressor, the hungry lion hunting down the innocent, virginal maiden. I'm tearing our clothes off, and I'm in control until suddenly everything changes when he's flipping me over, mounting me and leaving my breathless. _One_. Pain between my legs, and my breath hitches at the sensation. _Two_. Pleasure. I flex the muscles, adjusting to this alien if pleasant sensation.

"Sorry to hurt you," he whispers. I shake my head, arching my hips to meet hips, and catch his rhythm. I don't want to think. I just want to be. I just to hold myself together long enough to have a moment of pleasure. It wasn't how I imagined my first time; it's better.

"I thought it would hurt more." _Slam._ I buck my hips against his, and he comes to his senses and slams back before leaning down to kiss me hard. Our lovemaking is violent, as if by hurting each other we can punish ourselves for all our sins, for all the terrible things we've done. For the fact that we ate, and the fact that we didn't eat. We're fucked up, too skinny, bags of bones and we hurt. Except when we don't. Except when he slams against me that finally time, and I close my eyes and arch my back and a shoot of pleasure strikes me, blinding my mind for a single, wonderful moment. I hear his breath catch, and then he releases into me. For a moment, I feel full.

"Carly," he says again. We're both breathing hard. He cups the side of my face with his hand, and I don't know how I feel. Different, and yet not. Disappointed, almost. Like I thought this would cure me. Like this would fix my mixed-up, tangled emotions. Instead I just feel unfulfilled, and hopelessly sad. I run my hands over his ribs; you can't see them like you can see mine, but it makes me sad all the same.

"I'm sorry," I say, pulling away from him and beginning to look for my clothes. Tears are brimming in my eyes, and I don't even know why. He grabs me by my waist, pulling me back into his arms and cradling me as I start to cry again. "I'm so sorry," I plead, shaking.

"Everything is going to be okay," he says. I hear the uncertainty in his voice, and I shake my head.

"No, it isn't," I reply. "Everything isn't going to be okay. _I'm_ not okay. _Nothing is okay_!" I shout. I yank away, and then I'm putting my clothes on, even though it's sticky between my legs and it feels disgusting as I put on my underwear and jeans. "Everything isn't ok. I'm completely alone, and it's not okay. My mother walked out ages ago. My father is at war. My brother's caught up in his own world, my friends in each other. And what I thought was just a little diet, isn't such a little diet anymore. Ana's my world, and I can't get away, and I would do anything to just not have to think about it anymore!" I scream. He stares at me, and when he reaches for me I evade his touch.

"So no, Jack, everything isn't going to be okay. I'm sick, and the worst part is I don't even want to get better," I choke, the tears spilling down my face. "I just want to be sick, and be with Ana, because I don't even know who I am without her anymore." I run my fingers though my thin hair, trying to smooth it down. I wonder if people will be able to tell by looking at me. I wonder if I smell like sex. Will Spencer smell him on me? Does Spencer care? We haven't even talked about this.

"I have to go," I say. "I can't deal with this anymore. I can't think. I can't breathe. I can't _anything_," I hiss. I feel chaotic, out of control. Why did I just do that? I should have said no. I should have screamed no at the top of my lungs. I should have had more self-control. I should have – something, anything! Because now I'm all out of sorts, all over the place just trying to feel good and nothing feels good at all.

My life is a definition of what I can't have. I can't have Sam all to myself, she's Freddie's first. I can't have a mother. I can't have my father. I can't have anything to eat. It's not fair. I'm so hungry. I'm so, so, _so_ hungry and I'm not allowed to eat. I can cry, and scream, but it's never enough. There are just so many things I can't have, and I don't know how to get them back.

"Carly – " he starts. I cut him off with my leaving. I run out the door, onto the streets. I run as fast as I can, and it's so cold I could scream. I run and run and run, and I hope that maybe I'll outrun everything it is that's eating me, that's destroying me. I want to shed the pain in my heart, the pains of my bones and my mind. I thought it would make me feel beautiful. I still feel ugly.

I run up the stairs, and I slam the door behind me as I walk into the apartment, breathless and dizzy. I'm too weak to run, even though I'm fat. I'll always be fat. It will never be enough for Ana; she will always want more of me. And I'll keep giving it to her, because that's what I do. I'm Carly, and I give. I give until my blood dries up, suck from every organ and there's nothing left. No, when there's less than nothing. When it would hurt me to give more. Create a deficit.

"Carly." I look up to see Spencer's concerned face. Sam's mom is there, and Freddie's mom, and Sam and Freddie.

_We're all very worried about you, Carly_.

You're not worried. You just want to eat me. You just want to take away my only friend, the one who's stuck by me, who comforted me when I cried at night. You can't, though. I won't let you. Ana is mine, bitches. Ana posses me, and I like it that way. Take back your concern. I don't want it. I don't need it.

"Carly, Freddie and Sam have been telling me some things . . ." Specner continues. I shake, and it's all too much.

I collapse in a dead faint.


	10. IX: Made of Glass

IX: Made of Glass

* * *

"_An eating disorder is a very jealous and abusive partner. It requires a lot of devotion in the extent that you have to devote yourself to tending to the anorexia. There's not a lot of time left over for life."_

_Doug Bunnell

* * *

_

**3 March 2010**

_You_. _Are_. _Dying_.

* * *

I can feel Spencer staring at me. He's been doing this, ever since I came home and I fainted. When I go to bed, when he thinks I've fallen asleep – he comes in my room and he watches me, sitting sometimes in a chair, sometimes on the bed with me. At first, he cried, but now he doesn't even cry. He just stares, and sometimes I see him and his eyes are so sad. Like his whole world is falling apart, collapsing around him. Like when I fell, I took the whole world with me.

Spencer holds me, cradling me in his arms and stroking my hair. I wish he would stop. I wish he would go away and leave me alone in my anorexic misery, leave me to just die and fall apart. Because I've realized a few things over the last few days, and I'm not sure that I want to live anymore. It all just seems so . . . exhausting.

When I fainted, I was only out for a few minutes. It was just the stress of everything that caused me to faint. It wasn't that big a deal. It didn't have to be that big a deal. But everyone was so worried, and Spencer insisted that we drive to the ER. I tried to sleep on the way there, but every time I closed my eyes he would freak out, panic and warn me not to do that, he thought I was dying every time I did.

Of course, it took hours for a doctor to see us. I wasn't vomiting or bleeding, and I _was _breathing. Who cared about a stupid teenage girl who apparently had nothing wrong with her? It was torture just _sitting_ there for hours on end. I was so tired, and my emotions so jumbled up. I couldn't even say how I felt, except that I knew I wanted to start crying and I couldn't cry for some reason.

My phone rang. It rang, and rang, and rang. Jack kept calling and calling, and then Sam and Freddie too. I almost turned off the phone, but I liked the growing collection of _missed call_s and the text messages, the way the little yellow envelope blinked on my phone's screen. _Worry. Suffer – Gods knows I have_, I thought darkly. Spencer took no notice, completely wrapped up in attempting to fill out the paper work. I glared at him, and after a few minutes of his not noticing I got frustrated and just left. If he was worried, he could call me too.

I slipped into the bathroom, and ran some paper towels under warm water. I took off my jeans, and gently washed myself, cleaning the sticky white liquids from where they had dried on my thighs. I dried off, flushing the whole wad down the toilet before leaving the stall to wash my hands.

Glancing in the mirror, I was struck by how I looked. My cheeks were sunken. There were dark circles under my eyes. My hair was thin, and dull. My skin was sallow, and I looked exhausted. As though at any moment, I was going to just fall to pieces. As if was a paperdoll, or I was made of glass. And then there seemed to be a certain sadness to my features, like I had been crying for hours.

"You look like shit," I said to my reflection. My reflection blinked, and I sighed, my shoulders sagging. My clothes were loose, almost falling off me. I had been putting off buying new clothes, thinking to myself I would buy clothes when I was thinner, rather than spend money on every in-between size I hit.

"Carly!" Before I knew what was happening Spencer slapped me across the face. I gasped and stumbled backwards, staring at him and the look of horror on his face. "Don't walk away from me," he ordered. "You could have fainted again. No one would know who you were," he hissed. He frowned, and held the side of my face, trying to digest what had just happened. "And what were you doing in there? Have you been throwing up?" he demanded. Without waiting for my response, he grabbed me and leaned down to smell by breath. "You don't smell like vomit."  
"Get off of me!" I shrieked, snapping out of it and pulling away from him. "I can't believe you hit me!" I yelled. This earned us several stares, and Spencer frowned.

"I can't believe you're killing yourself," he replied, voice low and angry. I barked a laugh, enjoying the way he flinched.

"I can't believe it took you all this time to notice." Could I have wounded him more deeply? The look on his face! Like I had stabbed him through the stomach, like I had burned his most prized possessions. Like I was Snowden, and he was Yossarian, and he was watching all my guts and the stewed tomatoes come screaming out of my armpit when he'd thought, _if I only fix the leg it will all be alright_. And I was here to tell him that it wouldn't be, because man is matter, and ripeness was all. And as for my matter, I was too much.

"Carly," he whispered, tears falling down his face when he blinked. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he said, trying to hug me. I screamed and pulled away, the fury building in me like a nuclear reaction.

"_I don't want your apologies!_" I shrieked, my hands balled in fists at my sides. "I hate you! I hate you! I hate Mom for leaving, and Dad! I hate everyone! Why does everyone leave me?" I cried, my body shaking. "God dammit, everyone leaves me all alone, and God, it's awful. So I sit by myself and it's awful, and I hurt so much, and I don't know how to stop hurting. So just – just – just – argh!" I growled, throwing my hands in the air.

The exclamation took everything out of me. I grabbed my chest, and as icy cold horrible realization dawned on me. I dropped to my knees, my breath coming in short spurts. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't get enough air to do it.

"Carly! Oh my god, doctor!" Spencer screamed. "Someone help us! Someone help her!" he shouted, looking around desperately. I felt strong hands picking me up and I began to cry, absolutely terrified.

"Honey, just stay with me," the nurse said as I was placed on a bed. She pulled my shirt up and yanked my bra down, attaching wire to my breast. I cried harder, unable to catch my breath. Oh god, I was dying. I was having a heart attack because I was fucked up, and worse than that I was an idiot.

"It's okay, it's okay," Spencer kept saying. I wanted to slap because it wasn't okay at all and I expected that at any moment I was going to see white lights coming towards and great glowing hands. Unless I saw licks of red flame, because I remembered being told in Sunday School that you go to Hell if you commit suicide. Would this count as a suicide? I had done it to myself, after all.

"She's going to be just fine now," the nurse reported, reading the graphs on the screen. "Her heart beat got a little irregular there, but she's going to be okay. It was probably from the emotional outburst," she said.

"She's – she's anorexic," Spencer said quietly. "She's doing this to herself. Do something to her," he pleaded. "She collapsed today." The nurse regarded me coolly, and I started back.

"Honey, do you want to get better?" she asked me.

"I'm fat. I need to lose ten pounds," I replied. She sighed heavily, then shrugged at Spencer.

"There's nothing more we can do," she said. Spencer balked, opening and shutting his mouth several times before he finally could form words.

"What the fuck, there's nothing more you can do?" he screamed, his whole body shaking with his fury. "Fuck you, do something! She almost had a heart attack!"

"I can't make her do anything. I can only treat her if she has a heart attack," she said. "Would you like some brochures for eating disorder clinics?"

"I – yeah," he said, defeated. We left with a pile of brochures in Spencer's hands, and me properly terrified.

And yet not.

I don't even try to hide I anymore. I don't eat, and everyone glares at me, but they can't do anything about it. We certainly don't have the money to send me to an eating disorders clinic. And Spencer doesn't have insurance since he doesn't have a real job, so that's out. There's some talk of whether I can use Dad's, but Spencer's having a hard time sorting through all the nuances.

It doesn't matter, though, because they'll never be able to make me go. And even if I go, the insurance will eventually run out, and I won't have to eat. They can't make me. After I've worked so hard to make so little of myself, they won't make me big again and take everything away from me. I will NEVER let that happen.

As hard as I work, don't I deserve a break? Don't a deserve to finally get a little happiness in my life? Who will love me if I'm not beautiful, if I'm not skinny? Certainly Ana won't anymore. And if Ana leaves, if I'm okay, then they'll all leave, and I couldn't handle that.

So after Spencer goes to bed, I sneak out, and walk the empty, lonely streets. And I go to Jack's house, and he lets me in without speaking. We have sex in his bed, and he tells me that I'm dying. And I think, god, isn't that a wonderful thing?

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Not as long as I would have liked, but it had been a while, so I wanted to give you guys something. More of a filler than anything, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway!


	11. X: Hole in My Heart

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Hey everyone, just wanted to respond so a few comments about the nurse and the ER visit in Chapter Nine. It's true that if you report to an Emergency Room with complications from an eating disorder, all the doctors can do is treat the symptoms. A doctor can only hold a patient against their will if the patient threatens to hurt themselves or someone else. This is known as the Seventy-Two Hour Hold. After this period, the patient will be re-evaluated, and if they are determined to no longer be a threat, they are released.

Eating disorders do not fall under "threat to self"; the threat must be immediate. So if Carly had walked in with a gun to her head and threatened to blow her brains out, she would be held for seventy-two hours in the psych ward. Since she has anorexia, however, the doctors can only treat her symptoms; Carly must want help in order to get it, and she has the right to starve herself to death as much as she pleases.

However, because Carly is a minor (she is sixteen in this story), her legal guardian does have the power to commit her against her will. Spencer and her father can both sign her into inpatient treatment, and while they retain the power to sign her out whenever they please, Carly cannot sign herself out. Inpatient treatment is expense, and many patients require multiple stays before they make permanent progress. Often, even if the weight is regained, the psychological pathology remains. Additionally, most insurance companies have a cap on how long they will pay for treatment.

Most eating disorder patients feel that the insurance runs out too soon.

Many relapse.

Some of these patients will die.

* * *

X: Hole In My Heart

_I had a hole in my heart, _

_So I threw away my plate._

_Because nothing filled me up._

_No matter what I ate._

_~ quote seen on Pro-ana sites_.

* * *

**17 May 2010**

_Swing low, sweet chariot. Coming for to carry me home._

_Seventy-two pounds, Jack. Spencer. Sam. Freddie. _

_I win.

* * *

_

"Go home," Sam says, staring at me with wide, horrified eyes. "God, I can't even look at you anymore. You'll break if I touch you," she declared, her eyes raking over my body. I shrug.

"Everyone stares at you," Freddie adds, her voice teetering off and getting high. I shrug again, then wince. I'm sore from working out, tired from all the work I've so diligently put into my body over the past month.

Spencer cries at meals all the time, if I'm even around for them. At this point I see no reason in pretending and I'm just as likely to skip a meal as show up. I've been getting better at little tricks, like sucking on butterscotch candies for a few seconds before Spencer comes home. Then when I talk to him, he smells the sugar on my breath and looks a little relieved. I dirty dishes when he isn't home and then flush the food down the toilet so he won't find it in the trash. I'm getting cleverer by the hour – so very smart and good and clever. It thrills me to no end.

_Let's have some fun, this beat is sick._

_I wanna take a ride on your disco stick._

_Let's play a love game, play a love game_

_Do you want love, do you need love_

_Are you in love game?_

Give me love, give me control. My life is a bubbling, spinning chaos threatening to veer off in black places if I can't dominate it, tame it, bring it _down_.

Except I'm hungry.

I'm hungryhungryhungryhungryhungry.

Even when I eat, it's not enough. I stuff and stuff and stuff myself until my stomach hurts, because I want it to hurt, because I just want to eat even when I can't can't can't. Wholes bags of lettuce, and I think I'll puke from the way my stomach writhes and protests the violation. And I think to myself, _you should be grateful, it means you won't get fat_. And I think to myself _I have to have __**more**_.

"Since when do you care about what happens to me anyway?" I ask, my words hanging in the air like an earring on the cheek of the night. I'm shattering everything now, fumbling and stumbling forth to force things to be different – to be the way I want them to be. I don't care who knows I'm sick, I don't care as long I'm skinny, because skinny is all there really is anyway. If you can't fit into size zero jeans, you don't deserve to be in public. Much less be a pretty lie on the television screen, the computer.

"I've always cared, you're the one who doesn't anymore," Sam scoffs, looking at me with those flashing angry eyes. And I laugh, and the sound is cold and hard and mean I don't give a fuck.

God, I love to say that word.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

Because no matter how I shatter and how I fall, I twist and you don't expect that out of mean, do you darling? I'm so sweet and innocent and so very willing to stand by and let others be happy, take the reins (How do they do that with such ease? It always seems just being happy is a very easy thing to do for everyone else). And I can't anymore, only I don't even know what to do to _make it stop_.

It's like my brain is on fire, in a frenzy. I'm in a burning building, and I could scream, but I stay silent, because I know it wouldn't make a fucking difference anyway. I keep my mouth shut and shut and shut, and I don't say a word because that would be a MISTAKE. But it's so hard to just _be still_ and I don't know if I can do it anymore, oh god some days – some days I feel like I'm losing my mind?

Like I've already shattered.

_I had a hole in my heart_

_So I threw away my plate_

_Because nothing filled me up_

_No matter WHAT I ATE_

Yes, I'm falling apart, it's so shiningly clear now. I'm in little pieces, broken, and who cares anyway.

I tremble, and when I'm staring to think I might lose my mind out my head I collapse. Then Sam screams, and the cafeteria is alive with whispering and I wish that I didn't faint, that I had just dropped dead. Because anything would be better then having to deal with this – I can't deal with this. I just want to curl up in a ball and forget about everything, but I can't, and I can't, and I can't.

I'm not getting better.

I'm just getting fucked.

"Carly, we're calling your brother," the nurse tells me as I lay in her office, unable to even remember how I got there in the first place. Whatever. Not like I care. I grunt in response and feel for my ribs and hipbones. I just want to sit here and feel hungry and not eat, is that so much to ask for?

"Tell me how to make her eat, and I'll do it," Spencer says, looking at me with hollow eyes. "Give me the book. Tell me the names. Whatever it takes." And I hear him pleading, and I don't care anymore, because I just want to die and get it over with.

"Sweet Fields Farm Hospital in California," the nurse quips. "You can't fix her."  
"And how am I going to pay for this?" he asks, looking at me with the biggest, blackest eyes I'm every seen. I blink heavily and try to wish him away into thin air. _This is not my fault I will not be blamed no no no no no _

_This is how I disappear_.

"You pray."

When we get home, Spencer tells me to pack and say goodbye, and make up some good lie for iCarly, because I'm going away and I can't come home until I'm fat.

* * *

Sorry for another filler - I've been way busy with exams. But we should get some plot next time! Again, I always welcome your comments and questions and thank you so much for staying with me this long!


	12. XI: The Gilded Cage

XI: The Gilded Cage

* * *

It is not a sudden leap from sick to well. It is a slow, strange meander from sick to mostly well. The misconception that eating disorders are a medical disease in the traditional sense is not helpful here. There is no 'cure'. A pill will not fix it, though it may help. Ditto therapy, ditto food, ditto endless support from family and friends. You fix it yourself. It is the hardest thing that I have ever done, and I found myself stronger for doing it. Much stronger.

Maya Hornbaker, _Wasted

* * *

_

**2 June 2010**

I weight seventy-seven pounds and I'm not supposed to know that.

I'm supposed to know only that I'm _too thin_.

There is no such thing as thin enough.

* * *

"Please don't leave me here, Spencer!" I scream as a nurse holds me back. Tears stream angrily down my face, and no matter how I struggle I can't get away. My breath comes out in torn gasps from the exertion, and I wish more than anything that I could be in my bed in Seattle, falling asleep. Maybe watching TV with Sam, while Freddie edits the latest _iCarly_ episode.

"Carly, I'm sorry," he says, and for a moment I can almost believe that he really means it. "I'll be back to visit you tomorrow, okay? And for a few days after that before I go back to Seattle." I howl my indignation and fight harder, trying to get my legs up to kick. "Carly, stop doing that, you're going to give yourself a heart attack!" Spencer warns. I spit at him.

"I hate you! I hate you! Leave me on a fat farm, trying to plump me up like livestock! How will I think with a head full of fat? God, I hate you!" I scream.

"I'm sorry." And then he's going, fading out the door like a dream. I scream and I scream and I scream, and no one hears me. Or they hear me, but they aren't listening. They drag me away to a white room with white furniture – a pretty cage, but a cage nonetheless.

"Your roommate is going to be Holly Larsen. She's a very nice girl, I think you two will be good friends," Nurse Ruth tells me as they put me on the bed. "She'll be here when you wake up, okay, Carly? And then we'll give you a tour around the place after dinner. Doesn't that sound good?"

"Get away from me!" She holds down my arm, and I scream louder when she stabs me. "What are you _doing _to me?"

"This is just going to make you sleepy, okay? You'll feel much, much better when you wake up. Everything is going to be fine, Carly. You're safe here, I promise."

"Don't you dare!" I don't even know what I'm protesting anymore. Nurse Ruth smiles and I grab at her to claw her eyes out, but I'm fading away just like Spencer did. Blackness descends, closing in on me from every angle.

_Goodnight, Carly.

* * *

_

"Good evening, Carly? And how are we feeling now?" Nurse Ruth asks. I blink against the light, and slowly sit up, noting how my heartbeat goes so high and so hard from even that little movement. I ignore her, looking around my room and taking it in.

Holly's bed is on my left, and there's a curtain to divide the room, although it's pulled back right now. There are shelves above and around the headboard, and cabinets below for clothing. The cabinets are all glass, so they can make sure we're not hiding anything. There's a desk against the far left wall, and right of the desk is the door. Across from the door, in the corner, is another desk – this one is supposed to be mine. There's a sliding glass door and a little screened-in porch with dark green plastic chairs and a wooden table. There is no door to get out. Then again, I supposed we're all pretty weak and they don't expect us to even try very hard.

"We're going to dinner now, Carly. Do you think you can walk?" Nurse Ruth asks. She smiles. She is blond haired and blue eyed, with pink lips and white teeth. She's thin; I _wish_ I could be as thin as her. "Carly?"

"I wish I was as thin as you," I tell her. She frowns sadly.

"You're thinner than me," she tells me. I turn my face away, angry that she's lying to me but too resigned to fight that battle right now. I'm tired; I want to sleep some more. "We're going to dinner now, okay?"

"Whatever." Apparently this is a sufficient response. She smiles brightly, and I can distantly hear her chattering away about something, probably something about the center and what they do hear and blah, blah, blah. I don't care. I want to go home. I want to be home five hours ago.

"This is the dining room," Ruth says as we enter a great hall with long wooden tables. I freeze, my heart and head pounding in the same rhythm and warning me against going into this awful place.

_They'regonnamakemeeatthey'regonnamakemeeat . . . _

"Carly, I'm going to stay with you through this, okay?" she says, putting a soothing hand on my shoulder. "We're going to take this one step at a time." She smiles, and pushes me towards the cafeteria line even as I dig in my heels against it.

"Hi, Jeff," she greets the server. "this is Carly – she's new here. She's going to be started on a level one," she instructs. "We have levels here, one to five, based on how much you can eat. I know what you can't put too much in your stomach right now, and that's okay. We have nutritional food in small portions to you wouldn't feel sick," Ruth tells me brightly.

"All food makes me sick," I spit back. I glare at the server as he puts salmon with butter vegetables on my plate. Then they add a chocolate protein brownie, and a chocolate milkshake. Finally I get big roll; the bread is whole grain. "That's disgusting," I sneer, looking down at it. All I can see is grease, and fat, and things that are going to make me swell up like a balloon..

"Come on, Carly," Ruth says, ignoring my protests. She smiles at Jeff as he gives her her dinner. "Do you want to sit with some of the other girls tonight, or do you want to wait until tomorrow, after you meet some people?"

I look over to the other tables. Some of the girls are chatting. Some of the girls are silent, eating. Some are silent and not eating. The nurse, looming like the guards they are, glare at those girls, frustration shining through their eyes. I grimace and turn away. I don't want a bunch of people watching me eat.

"I'll sit with you, I guess," I say reluctantly. Ruth grins and we got to a table by myself. She puts the food in front of me, and I stare up at her.

"Just take one bite of salmon for me, okay?" she says encouragingly. "One bite." I continue to glare at her as I stab one small bite out, and test it on my tongue. _It's so rich_, I think, feeing its weight. I want to choke. I want to want it go away, and I can't help myself. The fear starts crawling up in my stomach and I spit it out.

"Carly," Ruth coos disapprovingly. "You can't do that. You need to eat your food," she gently chastises. "Okay? Now take another bite for me," she instructs. I shake my head.

"You said one bite," I protest weakly. I try to inject some anger into my voice, but it's shaking despite my best efforts.

"You spit that bite out, Carly. I need you to take a bite, and swallow for me," she says. "You can do that. I know you can do that." I spear a piece of broccoli on my fork, but it's dripping with butter. I wipe it back and forth on my plate until it's a little cleaner, and then I bring it to my mouth, and I can finally eat it. The vegetable goes down easy, butter soft on my tongue.

Slowly, I begin to eat the other vegetables, carefully wiping them off as much as possible. When Ruth doesn't stop me, I grow bolder, blotting them with a napkin to get them as dry as possible. I eat all the vegetables, and then I look to Ruth for her approval. She smiles at me, her blue eyes bright.

"Good job," she praises. "You're working hard. What next? It all looks so good, doesn't it?" she adds. I try to smile, but tears come to my eyes and my smile quivers away.

"Hey, what's going on? Talk to me."

"There's just so much of it," I gasp, looking at the spread. "I can't – I can't fit all that inside. No, I can't. I won't," I say, pushing the food away from myself. "It will make me fat, I can't eat it!" I shriek. Ruth grabs my hands. She squats next to my chair, shushing me.

"You are going to gain weight, Carly. I won't lie to you about that," she says. "This is because your weight is dangerously low. You are so thin right now that you are at risk for a heart attack; we need to get your weight up so you can be healthy again." She speaks slowly and deliberately, as though I were stupid. I'm not stupid, though. I'm just fat, and trying to not be fat anymore.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I just can't though. I can't," I continue, shaking my head some more.

"Yes, you can, you're stronger than you think," she says. "You have to stay here until you finish your food Carly. I know you can finish your food and be strong. I know it." I want to spit in her face.

Reluctantly, I turn to the food again. It turns my stomach to look at it, and I imagine the way I'm going to get so fat, the way I'm going to disappear into oblivion again until my great layer of blubber. But I look at her, and I know that the only way I'm getting out of here is if I fatten up.

I take another bite.

Even as Ruth is praising me, I know that I'll sit up at night doing crunches, leg lifts – anything that might burn a few calories. I'll fatten up just enough to get out of here, and then I'll go right back to losing. I know that I can do that. After all – nothing like a story of redemption to really get the crowd going, right? Sure, she fell off her dieting bandwagon, gained weight – but look at her now, kids! She's beaten the odds and lost the weight a _second time_. Carly Shay, weight-losing wonder-girl, a one-woman show!

I finish the salmon, and then I start on the roll, picking it apart into little pieces that go down easy until they go down harder. And I feel like my insides are going to burst, or that I'm going to throw up.

"I'm going to puke," I tell Ruth, but she shakes her head.

"Keep eating," she encourages me. "You can finish the meal, come on. You can do it!" she says, nodding at me.

"I can't – "

"Yes, you can!"

I almost throw up as I chug down the milkshake and then finally, finally, shove the brownie in my mouth and swallow it in big, painful bites. It hurts going down, and its hurts once it gets down. And all I can think about as Ruth cheers for me is about how fat I am, and how much fatter I'm going to get, and how all the other girls must be staring at me and thinking about what a pig I am.

I pretend to be asleep rather than meet my roommate. But I wake late at night, and when I wake, I can only think about how distended my stomach feels till, how uncomfortably full. I look down at my stomach, though, and I do my checks, and the thing is I can still see my hips and my ribs for some perverse reason, even as I feel myself getting bigger and bigger from all the food churning inside of me. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, and even though it hurts and I make myself exercise, because it might help to stave off some of the calories. Because I can't let myself just get fat. I just can't.

Spencer told me this was a good place for me to be. That it was the _best possible place _for me to be right now. But it's not – he's wrong. It's a cage. It may have all the bells and whistles of something good, but it's not. How can anyplace where they lock someone up and don't let her out be a good place? You know what they call that – they call that jail. It may be a pretty jail, but it's a jail. Gilded, even. I may be locked inside a Gilded Cage, but it's a cage nonetheless. And if it's not – why aren't you here too, Spencer? Why don't you want to be in this cage with me?


	13. XII: Ana Wrecks Ya

XII: Ana-Wrecks-Ya

* * *

_I'm not starving to death, I'm starving to beauty._

_- quote from pro-ana website.

* * *

_

**July 21**

They won't let me know what I weigh.

I think I'll die.

* * *

5:00, the alarm goes off. Holly groans and slams the off button, making me jump at the sound. I hear her moving around, changing into a hospital gown and grabbing yoga pants to wear under it and a sweatshirt and long-sleeved shirt to wear over. They keep us freezing here to encourage us to fatten up. The nurses say no, this is just normal temperatures for normal people, but Holly and I are in agreement: it's a conspiracy.

"Carly, get up," Holly says, coming over and shaking me. I groan but obey, falling out of bed. I throw off my pajamas, put on the gown, and put on grey sweatpants underneath. I put on a black long-sleeved t-shirt over, one with a deep v-neck. I top it off with a black sweatshirt, one that bags and drowns me. I look in the mirror, and see that my hair is limp, there are dark circles under my eyes. I'm very pale too, like I'm a ghost. Like I could disappear, fade from view.

"Let's go, Carly," Holly says, rolling her eyes at me. Holly is thin-thin-thin, popping collar-bones and ribs thin. She has blond hair, and freckles, and blue eyes, and if I looked like Holly, I would never need to starve myself. Holly doesn't starve that much anyway. Unlike me, she's mastered the trick of making herself throw up.

"I can do it silently, and I don't even need to gag myself," she told me, grinning in triumph. I looked at her with awe and wonder and envy, my heart burning with a wish to be her.

"Teach me?" I whispered pleadingly. "How does it feel – how do you do it? I've tried _so many times!_" I grumbled, flopping back on my bed. She laughed.

"I don't know, you kind of have to squeeze your stomach. And leaned over, because that helps – you know, gravity? And you have to drink a lot of water when you're binging, because that helps it come back up," she added. "I don't know how to explain it. You just do it," she said with a shrug.

"I am so jealous. Hate you," I moaned. She laughed and threw a pillow at me, and I sat up in surprise.

"Surprise pillow fight! Help me burn some calories!" she said. I laughed and joined her, grabbing the pillows off my bed.

"Carly, seriously, we have to go, or we'll be late and they'll all be pissed and I don't want to deal with that." Holly's voice brings me out of my memory back into real time. I take one last disappointed glance in the mirror and finally followed her out.

The line was long already, of course. They weigh the inpatients every day. If you're "recovered" enough, you're allowed to know what you weigh. If you're not recovered enough, they turn you around when they weight you. It's called "blind weight". I hate blind weight, but they won't let me do real. Not until I "prove" that I'm competent enough. It's so _annoying_.

"Wish me luck," Holly says as they call her in. I give her a kiss on the cheek and a smile.

"Luck!" I call out to her. The door closes ominously behind her, and I say a little prayer for everything to work out for her.

"Hey, excuse me?" I glance over my shoulder and find myself looking at a girl I've never seen before. She's short, with red hair and green eyes. She looks nervous, like she's afraid I'm going to get mad at her. I smile, hoping to soothe her nerves.

"What's up?" I ask, turning so I can face her. She blushes, and I wonder how much younger she is than me. It's so hard to tell here how old people are.

"Are you Carly from _iCarly_, by any chance?" she talks quickly, the words tumbling out of her mouth like it took everything she has just to get them out. Then she looks at me with these big, impressed eyes, because she's meeting a _celebrity_. I stiffen, unsure of how to respond. It seems stupid to deny who I am, and at the same time, I'm ashamed to admit it. And that's when something changes.

I'm ashamed of my anorexia, and that's new. Because it's always been about how strong I was, how I was superior to everyone else because they ate, and I didn't have to, and I could resist temptation. Yet somehow . . . I don't feel very good about myself for it. I feel rather empty. But not the good empty of hunger and power and control. Empty like tired. Empty like wanting something to hold me and tell me it was all going to be okay.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you – " the girl starts to say. She stops short as I hold up my (bony, tiny) hand and shake my head.

"It's fine. It's – yes, I am Carly of _iCarly_. It's nice to meet you." I plaster on my fake but pretty smile, the one I've been using in front of the camera for months. I want to call Sam. I haven't talked to her at all since I got here, and I'm suddenly aching for the sound of her voice. The girl opens her mouth to say something back, but just then Holly tumbles out of the weighing room, looking annoyed.

"I hate morning weights," she grumbles. "Into the dragon's den with you, Carly – catch you at breakfast?" she says. I nod. "Stay strong!"

"Holly," warns a nurse. Holly has the balls to look innocent.

"I'm encouraging her," she says indignantly. The nurse scoffs.

"We know _exactly_ what you're encouraging in her, Holly," she growls. "No pro-ana talk. Go to breakfast." Holly sticks her tongue out at me and I laugh as I enter the dragon's lair.

"Good morning, Carly," the nurse, Bertha, chirps. Bertha is fat. Layers of flesh cascade off her big belly, her full hips. Her breasts are like watermelons, big and long. She has a crown of jet black hair that she wears in long, loose curls that shine brilliantly when they catch the light and frame her porcelain skin. "Hop on the scale and turn around."

"How long until you can start telling me what it says?" I ask, pulling off my extra layers and standing in just the hospital gown, shivering. "This is so frustrating," I groan. She sighs in sympathy.

"I know, kiddo, but just think about getting healthy. You'll be out in time for school – aren't you excited about that?" she says, grinning. "I'll bet a pretty girl like you has a boyfriend waiting for her." I blush, thinking of Jack and wondering if he's wondering about me, what happened to me, why I don't call anymore. I wonder what Spencer says when they ask him where I am, and what Sam and Freddie say. I wonder what the viewers of _iCarly_ think happened to me – maybe I'll ask that new girl who recognized me.

"Hop off the scale now. Blood pressure next," Bertha says, humming to herself as she puts the band around my arm. They have three different bands here; one for normal-weight people, one for fat people, and one for underweight, skinny people. I'm always cheered to see her use the skinny people one.

"Looking good," she reports as she writes down a number in my file. "How are you feeling today?" she asks. She motions for me to hop up so she can do a body check and make sure I haven't been self-injuring. I try to tell them that's not my drug of choice, but it's "mandatory for everyone".

"Sleepy," I tell her. "Can I go now?"

"You're good to go, Miss Carly. I'll see you tonight," Bertha says. I nod, pull my clothes on, and happily leave the tiny, frightening room. "Melissa?" I hear Bertha call. The red-head I was talking to earlier takes her first tentative steps in, and I commit her name to memory. _Melissa_. I'll find her later.

I drop my hospital gown off at my room, and then head down to breakfast. Ruth smiles as she checks my name off her list, and I get in to get my tray. I try not to look too disgusted as they pile the food on. If I advance another level, I'll win the right to pick out my own food on an exchange basis. They'll give me a list of different types of foods to get in over the day – i.e. one dairy serving, one grain serving – and then I can pick among different foods which will be my serving. Right now, however, I'm still at level two, and they pick out for me what I'll eat. In some ways, it's nice, because I don't have to think about it anymore.

"How was the ride through hell?" Holly asks as I sit down with her. She hasn't touched her food yet, and I can see one of the nurses watching her. I cut my toast into quarters, and Holly does the same. We take the first tentative bite together, but I don't swallow until she does. She already proved she was stronger waiting for me. I don't need doubly to look like a pig.

"Hell. Shock and surprise," I say sarcastically. Holly giggles, and takes another small bite of the toast. I smile at her, and kick her playfully under the table. As the nurses go through the weights, more girls file into the cafeteria, all wearing the same unsure expression on their faces. You never know how to feel about the weight. On the one hand, gaining means leaving – and we all want to get out. On the other hand, gaining is gaining – and none of us wants to be fat. I see Melissa standing at the end of the cafteria line looking alone, and I wave her down.

"Melissa!" I call across the room. She looks up in surprise, and I smile and motion for her to join us. She does, nearly tripping as she run-walks over. She's trying not to look too eager, but it isn't working very well. It's kind of cute, in a way.

"Who's she?" Holly asks.

"I met her at morning weights. She's new, I'm being nice," I reply. Holly nods in understanding, and smiles when Melissa sits down.

"Melissa, this is my roommate, Holly," I introduce them. "Holly, Melissa." Melissa looks a little surprised that I knew her name, but she also looks delighted, and beams at me.

"It's nice to meet you," she says, grinning widely at Holly. I notice that Holly has stopped eating, waiting for Melissa to begin. Melissa does unconsciously, diging into her yogurt. I'm surprised, wondering how she does it so effortlessly. Maybe she's a bulimic; no anorexic could just eat like that.

"So are you from Seattle?" I ask, ripping my bread into pieces without really eating it. Holly cuts up her apple, unable to stomach the scary carbs right now.

"Mmm-hmm," she affirms. She finishes the yogurt. And Holly dares to eat an apple slice. I have a sip of orange juice and another bite of toast. Melissa is attacking her toast with gusto. "_iCarly_ isn't the same with out you."

"What have Sam and Freddie said about my absence?" I ask, seizing on her lead-in.

"That you're at camp all summer, and you'll be back when the school year starts," she says. "It's kind of convenient to be here in the summer, isn't it? We can just say we went to sleep away camp." She laughs, but there's not much humor in it.

"When I had to go away at the end of the year, I told everyone I had mono," Holly says. "When people know, it's like you never get any peace. They're always watching you, and then I can't eat at all, and then they get all pissed and it's a fucking mess," she snarls. I nod.

"The last month I was home, I had so many arguments with my brother. I used to get up at two in the morning and exercise because he would make me eat dinner and I had to get rid of it somehow, right?" I say, looking at them for confirmation. "It was awful."

"What did you do?" Holly asks curiously. She starts eating the apple, the toast temporarily abandoned.

"I would turn on a movie and just go on the elliptical until the movie ended. And I would do a work out DVD – one of those ones where you use your own body weight? I don't know what that's called."

"Calisthenics," Holly says knowingly. "I used to go swimming in the morning before school – I told my mom I was doing homework in the school library, because my mind was clearer in the morning. And then I would go to sports practice after school, and then I would do extra after that, and my mom just thought that sports practice ended later than it actually did. It was so perfect – I would stay out so late, and tell her I ate dinner with the team. And breakfast, I would take and throw away on the way to the gym. She thought I ate because I left behind dirty plates," she laughs. "People can be so stupid."

"Not stupid enough. My friends, it's like, if you don't see me eat it, I didn't eat it," I grumble. "They gave up for a while. It was sort of nice."

"I always liked the attention not eating got me. I would hate it if people started leaving me alone," Melissa says quietly. Holly and I exchange a look and then awkwardly look down at our plates, unwilling to admit that she's right.

"Carly Shay!" someone calls out. I freeze up – I recognize the voice. It's male, and it's soothing, and it's something I didn't expect to hear here of all places.

"Jack," I whisper, not turning around. Holly looks curious.

"Your boyfriend?" she asks. I'm not paying attention. I stand up, and I catch sight of him by the front. He's grinning at me, his smile a million watts. A warm, rushing feeling fills me and I run over to him even as the nurses tsk in disapproval.

"Jack!" I say, falling into his arms. He stumbles back slightly as I crash into him, enveloping him in a hug. "What are you doing here?"


	14. XIII: Bully Mia

XIII: Bully Mia

* * *

_I want to feel your bones, on my bones._

_I am a teenage drama queen,_

_I'll throw my guts up for self-esteem. _

_Well, every boy wants a body to die for,_

_And every girl that's thin is his rival,_

_I wish that I had a body to die for. _

_Skinny is sexy, big isn't beautiful._

_- Big Isn't Beautiful _by Kings Adora

* * *

"What, I can't come see my favorite girl?" Jack asks, laughing. I laugh too, but I'm sort of nervous. Something doesn't feel quite right. I wonder if he notices how fat I've gotten, if he cares for me still. If he'll think I'm beautiful anymore.

"I just – I was afraid you would be mad at me, since I never had a chance to call you before Spencer kidnapped me and brought me here," I grumble. "I'm glad you're not mad at me – I'm really happy to see you," I whisper, hanging on to him like he's a firefighter, and I'm the smoke-choked victim in a house on fire. His appearance means, for some reason, that everything's going to be alright now.

"I missed you, Carly," he says, his voice dropping and taking a sweeter, more serious tone. He brushes his fingers through my hair, and winces when some strands fall out.

"It's one of the side effects," I murmur, embarrassed. I wish that I could take that hair and plug it all back into my head.

"I know," he mumbles. He kisses the top of my head, and his lips are dry. I catch a whiff of something sour, and my stomach drops because now I know that he's been throwing up again.

"I can smell it," I tell him, and from his silence I know I don't have to say what "it" is. "Oh, Jack."

"Yeah, well," he looks down, gives a little laugh. "So, I might have earned myself an extended visit with you, Carls. Aren't we going to have fun?" he says, trying to sound amused. I can sense the fear in him though, the uncertainty. I squeeze him hard, feeling his ribs press against mine. It hurts.

"You've gotten really skinny," I comment. He shrugs.

"I threw up before I came here," he says suddenly. He looks around, looks at all the people watching us. "Is there somewhere where we can get some privacy?" He looks at me longingly, and pets my hair again, this time careful to not pull any more out. "I have so much to talk to you about," he sighs.

"We can't talk now. We'll have free time in the afternoon – and I have to finish my breakfast, or they'll make me drink to us those weight-gain drinks. And they taste too awful to be worth their calories," I say with a shudder. He grimaces.

"I know," he sympathizes. "It's nice to see you, though. Really," he adds, smiling at me. I beam back.

"I'll catch you later. I'm in room two twenty-one," I tell him. I kiss his cheek and give him one last hug as a nurse comes rushing in.

"There you are! Come with me, Jack, we need to finish your tour," the nurse says, glaring at him. "I though you were using the restroom."

"Whoops," he says, not sounding convincing at all. "I guess I just got lost."

"Well, I'll just have to stick with you then, won't I, to make sure that doesn't happen again," she says. Jack keeps smiling, but I can see the way it hardens.

"Super," he quips. I give him a look of sympathy before I return to my food and my friends' curious looks.

"He's cute," Holly says approvingly. "I take it you know him? Or are you just claiming your territory?" she asks. I laugh, but the sound comes out harsh.

"He's – I know him," I say, realizing that I can't find a good definition for Jack. He's not my boyfriend; at least, we never discussed it. But we're not friends either. Friends don't fuck each like that – friend's don't say _I love you_ like that. My head gets muddled trying to come up with a good definition of me and Jack, so I stick with the only thing I can say that's true – I know him. Oh god, do I know him. I wonder if we're allowed to have conjugal visits here, and then I blush because I've scandalized myself that I would ever think that.

"Ooh, look how she's blushing," Holly says, smiling at Melissa. "I'll bet you know him – in the Biblical sense, perhaps?" she teases. I roll my eyes.

"Eat your breakfast, I want to get out of here and brush my teeth," I tell her. I start eating for good measure, knowing that I can't talk if there's food in my mouth and that she'll eat if someone else eats too. Melissa has already finished, and looks embarrassed as she notes our small, controlled bites.

"I wish I had your self-control," she says, and I wonder if I should tell her that it's not self-control – it's just plain, ordinary, everyday run-of-the-mill fear.

Morning means Group Therapy. I give Holly a hug as we part ways, and a wave to Melissa. Roommates are not allowed to be in the same Group; they want us to "branch out and interact with different people". I don't love this policy, but no one consulted me when they made it.

"Good morning!" Krissy, our Group leader, chirps. I take a seat in one of the squishy plush light blue chairs they have out for us. Some of the girls take the floor, covered in a dark blue rug. Tara is lying flat on her back, her hair everywhere as she looks up at the white ceiling. Tara has Binge Eating Disorder, and she's fat, and she hates being around the rest of us because we remind her of what she doesn't have. So she lies down a lot to try to make herself thinner, but it doesn't really help. She says she's grateful that at least she's not in plus sizes, that at least athletics have given her that blessing. I still think I would never, ever want to be that big.

"So who wants to start today?" Krissy asks, looking around. Everyone kind of shrugs, looking reluctant. Caitlyn, one of my friends, sucks a deep breath and then exhales slowly. Her long dark brown is loose in waves over her shoulders, her green eyes are jumping like she's nervous. She has makeup on as always, bronzer dusted on to give her a "sun-kissed glow". Caitlyn can't stand to be seen without her makeup on.

"Hey," I murmur, giving her shoulder a squeeze. She flickers a smile at me, then returns to her fidgety, jumpy state. "Um, Cait?"

"Caitlyn, would you like to share with us?" Krissy asks. I wince, trying to communicate with my eyes that I'm sorry for having dragged her into this debacle. She bites her lip and gives a deep sigh. Without saying a word, she pulls down her shirt sleeve to show us a bright red line straight across her wrist. A few of the girls turn away, and a few wince. Others look on in fascination and something almost like envy.

"Ouch, Cait," I say, shuddering. I've never been a cutter; it freaks me out, to be quite honest. I can't imagine the idea of opening up my flesh, of peeling it back to expose all those squishy things inside, those things that are so delicate and vulnerable. I like the hard shell of my bones, so much better to protect me from the outside world.

"I ran to Brenda in the middle of the night over it, crying," she says, naming on the nurses. "I was scared, and I was ashamed and for the first time, it didn't make me feel better," she says, curling her legs up under her chin and looking at the floor. "I – I didn't want to," she adds, her voice betraying a tremor of fear.

"That's a big step, Caitlyn," Krissy says encouragingly. "You've doing really well. Can anyone here relate to what Caitlyn's saying?" she asks, looking around. We all squirm in our seats, torn between our mutual longing for attention and the feeling that if all eyes are on us, we'll inevitably say something completely idiotic.

"All I've known is not wanting to do things," Tara says, starting to sit up and then growing self-conscious and lying back down. "All I know is not wanting to take the next bite, and doing it anyway, and it _sucks_," she says, grimacing like she just bite into a piece of under ripe fruit. "And you know what the worst part is? Everyone sees all my problems from the moment they meet me – I've written them all over my body. I can't hide it," she says, her lower lip quivering like she just might start to cry.

I hug myself, feeling her pain wash over me like a wave at the ocean. It's been hard enough to carry my own pain; it's so hard when you're asked to share the burden and carry some of someone else's too.

"I used to be like that," I say, leaning back in my seat, too tired to support myself upright. I wish I could go back to sleep.

"What do you mean?" Tara says sharply, although I can hear the hint of curiosity in her voice. _Were you fat too, _she's wondering.

_I still am fat, _I want to reply.

"I mean – I liked it, though. I like everyone seeing it all over me," I say, trying to make the words go right so that they come out of my mouth the same way I felt them in my brain. Krissy nods, encouraging me to go on.

"If your body says it for you, you never have to talk about it," a girl named Cora says knowingly. "You go to the bathroom after every meal whether you're going to throw up or not. You hope someone's worrying, someone's concerned. You hope they notice, because – because the words are like peanut butter, and they get stuck in your throat, and no matter how much you want to say something you _can't_," she says. I nod.

"Does anyone want to respond to Cora?" Krissy asks, looking around. "That's a very insightful comment," she adds, nodding in Cora's direction. Cora glows under the praise.

"I don't know how to talk," I whisper, dropping my head. "I don't even know _what_ I'm feeling sometimes. And it's just – I don't know, I can't make people come back, you know?" I say, looking around. "My dad is fighting for our country – I can't just ask him to come back, I can't. And my brother has to work, and my friends are trying to be a relationship, so I can't – I can't take that from them, I just can't," I say, shaking my head as the tears spring forth.

"You know, when I was little, my mom, before she left us," I say, fidgeting. "She used to stay home from work when I was sick, and I loved it. I would pretend I was sick sometimes so I could spend more time with her." I bark a bitter laugh. "Like I knew that I had to get my fill now, like I knew she would run away in the end, that I wouldn't – I would never be enough to tether her there. I was five years old, my brother had just started college – yeah, he was good enough to hold her," I growl.

"But me? I wasn't enough. Stay until Spencer's grown up, who cares about Carly?" I hiss. "And then September eleventh happened, and my father was called to duty, and I was moved to Seattle to live with my brother. I left behind my friends, and my life, and it wasn't fair!" I cry, the tears coming fast now and choking me. "It wasn't fair at all. But what could I do? No one asked me – no one cared," I cry, the sobs wracking my body. Caitlyn pats my back soothingly, and I cry harder.

"Let it out," Krissy says in a soothing voice. I scream as loud as I can, and I feel several of the girls flinch away from me in fear. _Let them_, I think. I want nothing to do with them. "Loneliness hurts," she says.

"I have to find something to do with myself," I whisper, shaking my head. "I have to do something." I shiver; the room is suddenly colder, and I don't think it has anything to do with the temperature. "I don't want to die." The room spins, and I feel the panic rising up in me. "I'm so scared. I don't want to die!"

* * *

"Carly!" Jack shouts, calling my name from across the gardens. I turn around and smile at him. Nurses patrol the garden, making sure we don't extend ourselves too much. We're allowed to walk a little, but we're not allowed to really exercise. Some of the girls feel better walking around, like they're earned their calories. I know that the balance is still off, so it doesn't make me feel much better.

"Jack," I say, looking at him with adoration. I throw my arms around him as he comes over, and I can feel that he's shaking.

"I need a fix so bad," he whispers, biting his lip and rocking on his heels. "God, all I want to do is puke." He grabs my hand, leading me to a bench to sit down. I do so obediently, too sad and scared to say anything.

"Don't do that," I whisper, leaned my head on his (weak, fragile) shoulder. "I hate it when you do that," I mutter. He holds my hand, and we look out at the black-eyed susans that wave in the breeze.

"I love you," he says, not looking at me.

"I know," I reply. And I'm embarrassed, and I don't know what to say back.

"I always wished I could be anorexic," Jack sighs. He's still not looking at me – he's somewhere far away, somewhere when he's (finally) outrunning his emotions. "I tried so hard. I just wanted to be in control . . ." And his voice shakes, and I squeeze my eyes shut because I can't deal with the weight of his emotions on top of mine. _Stop it Jack_.

"Anorexia – it's so neat," he whispers, his fingers twitching with want. "Such perfect control. Such perfect emptiness," he sighs. "Do you know what it's like to be hungry all the time? To always feel empty? So I . . . I would just eat. And eat. And eat. And then it would be like _oh god what have I done _and I would starve, and puke, and exercise until I thought I was going to die," he says, shaking just a little.

"I know," I say, and tears fall down my face because I really do know, I really do know what it's like to be that sad, and that lonely, and what it's like to need something (control! Fullness!) so much. "I wish I could take it away," I whispers, reaching up to him. He squeezes my hands.

"We're so fucked up," he mutters, shaking his head. "_I'm_ so fucked up. My dad walks out, I start puking. I hate it," he hisses. "It's so messy. You're always so out of control. I remember – " He closes his eyes, focusing. "I remember going to the grocery store about basketball, and buying gallons of ice cream, and sports drinks, and cakes – I bought an ice cream cake from Baskin Robbins once. Then I came home, and I snuck it up to my room, and I ate the whole thing. It's funny, how something can feel so good going down and so bad coming up. Because while you're doing it, you're high, thinking about how you'll get rid of it. You're at your most of out control, scaring yourself the way you can't stop eating, and your most in control, because you can undone it like that." He snaps his fingers, and the sound echoes in the garden. "And then when you're puking, it's awful, Carly. It's really just the worst. It hurts so much – it doesn't look like that on TV," he mutters.

"Anorexia doesn't look so sad on TV," I reply. "They don't get hungry like I do," I tell him. He swallows and shakes his head.

"No one gets hungry like we do."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **I found this a very difficult chapter to write, especially the last part. I hope you guys liked it, though. Thanks for reading and staying with me - and talk to me, I love hearing your thoughts!


	15. XIV: Quod Nutrit

XIV: Quod Nutrit(What Nourishes)

* * *

_Quod me nutrit, me destruit._

_What nourishes me, destroys me. _

_Latin translated by L. M. Boulevardes_

_quote used on pro-ana sites,_

_Original source: tattoo on Angelina Jolie's pelvis

* * *

_

**August 28**

Courage means doing it even though it scares you.

* * *

"I'm hungry," I announce in shock, sitting in Group. They all turn to look at me, some of them confused, some of them amused – some of them scared. I'm scared too, to be perfectly honest. It was always so easy when I wasn't hungry to not eat, to just ignore it all into oblivion. And I think to myself, _suppress your carnal desires._

And I think to myself, _I want to live_.

"How does that make you feel?" Krissy asks, looking at me with gentle eyes. I squirm under her gaze, trying to find my feelings and pull them out of their knot, the one that sits in my stomach and throat and sometimes really hurts. I focus on the image, on the unraveling. The strings dispel, feeling into the corners of my body and I shudder as the impact hits me.

"It makes me feel . . . I don't know," I say, shrugging. "Like exercising," I confess, giving a little (embarrassed) laugh. "I don't like to feel hungry."

"Maybe you just don't like to need," Cora suggests. "I hate eating. I need too much," she mutters, and I find myself nodding in agreement.

"I always need too much," I say. "Except. . ." But I stop, the words lying unformed in my head like children in the womb. Not there yet, not ready to leave. Still foggy, not even recognizable for what they are.

"Except what?" Krissy asks, pushing me. I bite my lower lip, frowning in concentration and trying to get the words to come together in my mind and do what I want them to do.

"Except . . . except, how do I know whether I need too much or just the right amount and I'm just not getting it anyway?" I ask. The Group is silent, and I suddenly feel rather alone (_I want to starve_.)

"It's like when you're all emaciated, everyone can see how hungry you are," Caitlyn says. "Everyone knows that you need love an attention. When there are scars on your arms, everyone can see them. And what do you do – what do you do in those in-between stages where you know you need help, but everyone else just brushes you off and keeps telling you that it's okay, that you're fine, that you don't need it, even though you know in your heart that you do?" She grimaces like she's got acid reflux and her pain washes over me. "I didn't try to kill myself because I wanted to die. I tried to kill myself because I wanted my depression to be taken seriously so I wouldn't get to the point where I really was trying to kill myself," she says.

I shudder.

"I'm just hungry," I whimper, and Krissy looks to one of the nurses in the corner of the room. Nurse Ruth stands up, smiling at me.

"Want to get something to eat?"

I look around at those bony, lonely, hungry faces that surround me. My heart is beating out of control, echoing in my ears and I want to scream and run away (_Okay no thank you I've had enough now_). It feels like their judging me, like they'll think less of me if I eat and give in and I _don't want to be a failure_.

I think of Caitlyn lying bloody in her bathtub though, and I think of Spencer having to bury is little sister (_I'm sorry, I left her in the morning and she was a little girl but when I came home that night the little girl had left all that there was for me was a bag of bones)_. My lower lip trembles, and I'm struck with indecision because oh God, I'm so hungry, but oh God, they'll think less of me, won't they?

Nurse Ruth catches my eye as I'm about to refuse, and she holds my gaze steady, a rock in the storm of my emotions. She waits for my answer, giving me the softest, kindest look I've gotten in a while in the end it's enough to break me – or rather, it's enough to make me. Enough to give me strength, to make me strong enough to do what I have to do. I take a deep breath and I say yes.

I say _yes_.

* * *

"I'm eating," I tell Jack, sitting on a bench in the park. "Aren't you proud of me?' I give a little laugh, and notice that my hair is shinier than it's been in a while (_hmm, funny how that works_). It hasn't been falling out so much either, and I can't honestly say that I don't like these new side effects. The sun shines, and the warm is delicious and filling and for once it's a summer day that doesn't leave me shivering.

"Yeah," he breathes, giving me his brightest smile. "I really am." He kisses me, and runs his fingers though my hair, watching the sun play off the dark strands. "You're absolutely gorgeous," he tells me. Then he kisses me again, devouring my lips and not caring who sees. And I can't help but like it – love it, even. I have finally been claimed; I am someone's, and someone wants me.

"Thanks," I reply, still blushing from the compliment. I rake my eyes over him, taking in the image and wishing I could say something better than _you look like hell_. His hair is limp, dull. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his skin is dull, pale, slightly yellow. Jack looks like he just crawled out of a trench, his eyes are so haunted.

"You look hungry," I blurt out. He shrugs, and I bite my lip (_bad habit, Carly, stop that_.) "Have you been eating?" I ask. He snorts and nods.

"Yeah, it's just kind of weird to, um, keep it down," he mutters, self-consciously rubbing the back of his neck. I hug him, and I can feel all of his bones.

"I know," I say, even though I'm not sure I really do. I open my mouth to say something else, but someone calls me from across the garden and I turn, looking at Nurse Ruth. She doesn't look happy, but she looks like she's trying to hide that.

"Hey, kiddo, just need to borrow you for a moment," she says, forcing a smile (her lips look more white than pink). "Hi, Jack," she adds, nodding in his direction. He looks at her with guarded eyes, pulling out of my embrace.

"Hey."

"I'll catch you later, okay?" I tell him, taking a step back. He nods, but look troubled and I wish that there was something I could do to ease the cares of his mind. I can't do anything now, though. I follow Nurse Ruth through the bright-windowed doors, and the others girls watch me with curiosity. It feels like the eyes of all the world are creeping over my (still pale) skin, and I want nothing more than to shake them off.

"Come in here." Through a big white door, to a room full of people with anxious faces and me sitting there, unsure of what to do and wondering what they all want from me. (_Hi, my name is Carly, would you like a performance, because I'm good at that_.)

"Carly, we have some news to share with you," Dr. Fields says. The leather of the big chair I'm sitting in is stick under my sweaty thighs, and my heart is beating so fast and hard in my chest that I'm waiting for it to leap out and stain the floor red. Dr. Fields smiles in a way that I suppose is meant to be comforting, but it only makes my stomach feel more sick. (_Hey, maybe if I puke I'll lose a pound or two!_).

"What's going on?" I ask nervously. I haven't done anything wrong lately, so I'm not entirely sure about what this could all be about. They just look too kind, too friendly. Something is up (_I can feel it_).

"Your insurance has run out, Carly, you're going home next week," Dr. Fields informs me. "Your brother just called us today. He's very excited to see you and very happy to hear about the process you've made," the doctor chirps. I wonder if she's saying this as the head of the center or as my personal shrink. I decide head of the center; I never really bonded with her as my shrink.

The words wash over me once, then again before they oh-so gradually start to sink in. I swallow, trying to get them to make sense even though they're all funny and bad-tasting. I begin to sweat, and I realize with dread that this is actually a _very bad idea_ for a numbers of reasons, and I realize that this is so far from the end it's not even funny.

"I can't go home," I say, shaking my head. Dr. Fields begins to talk but I jump down her throat, interrupting (_that's rude, Carly_) in my panic. "You don't understand. I'm not healthy yet. I – I can't do this all by myself," I say, looking around the room desperately. "Don't you know what's going to happen to me? You can't just send me away. I'm sick!" I shriek, standing up on my wobbly, unsteady legs. _Oh God the world is spinning . . ._

"Carly, you have to calm down right now, I know this is a lot to take in," Dr. Fields says firmly. "It will all be fine. We're going to give you a meal plan, help you get a support system in place. Everything will be fine," Dr. Fields says. Tears well in my eyes and I shake my head because I know she's wrong.

"You're sending me to my death," I tell her bluntly. Then I leave the room, my hands shaking and I think _maybe this will burn a few calories_. This is the worst part, right here; I know how fucked up I am and I'm still not doing anything about it (_you make me sick Carly Shay_.)

I ran to my room, bursting through the door and unnerving Holly and Melissa, sitting quietly on Holly's bed. They both looked at me, and I smiled even as the tears began to pour down my face.

_Hey guess what guys I'm going home isn't that great?

* * *

_

The California sun looks bright from a car window, brighter than it looks coming in the windows of a building. It's brighter still on an airplane, one that flies into the night sky heading for Washington. The Seattlites sleep on the plane, dreaming of the comfort of cloudy grey skies and the rain that will greet them, so mild and gentle.

I sit in my seat next to Spencer, stomach churn-churn-churning and feeling all loose, all at ends. Sam is _so happy_ that I'm coming home and she can't wait to see me. Freddie is _so happy_ that I'm coming home and he can't wait to see me. They hope that I'm _healthy_, they want to start filming new segments for iCarly because it's been getting pretty weird and boring without they star, right? And all I want to do is curl up in a ball and make it all go away.

Spencer thinks he can trust me, but he gives me too much credit. I cut my glass of milk with water. I picked all the chicken out of my salad, and hid it in a napkin. I went to the bathroom after dinner and tried to make myself puke again, but all that happened was that my eyes turned red and teary with the effort. So I put on more makeup so no one would ever know any of the secrets that I'm hiding (_I'm so, so sorry_.)

When I broke the news to Holly and Melissa, they both cried and hugged me, the bones of our skinny little bodies all hitting up against one another. I promised them that we would stay in contact, and they nodded tearfully and I wished with everything I was that I wasn't leaving, that I could just stay in California summerland because I was _this close_ to making some _real progress_. But it slip-fell from my hands, and now I'm going to Seattle and I'm sick, sick, sick.

When I told Jack, he said nothing, just pulled me into his room and into his bed. And that's where we were for hours, moving mechanically through the motions, both crying and saying nothing, not even the littlest little moan to break the silence. His skin felt so good on my skin, his heat so pleasant. He filled me and I almost believed that I could be full and okay on my own. And then we parted at last and I was breathless, cold and shaking.

The last thing he did was kiss me bruisingly and tell me he loved me. He said it over and over, as if that could save me, as if that would make me okay. And I cried and I told him that I loved him too, and we stood there crying and knowing that merely loving someone isn't always enough.

I land in Seattle at night, and as I expected it's raining, and Sam and Freddie are waiting for me with smiles and greetings and caution. I put on my best fake smile, tell them everything's great, I'm fine. We go out for ice cream, and then Spencer takes me home because _I must be so tired_. Once he falls asleep, I get up, and I go downstairs to put in a couple sweaty hours on the elliptical.

* * *

And next chapter brings us back to that prologue . . . thanks for reading this far, I appreciate your reviews!


	16. XV: Double Bind

XV: Double Bind

* * *

_A good girl doesn't swallow, but a better one doesn't put in it her mouth to start._

_Good Ana's don't die. _

_~ Two separate quotes from Pro-Ana websites

* * *

_

**September 22 **

_Hunger hurts but starving works. _

_Hunger hurts but starving __**works.

* * *

**_

"How was camp, Carly?" Wendy asks, smiling at me. I blink a couple of times, bringing her back into focus. _If you were eating properly, things like this wouldn't happen_, snipes some rational part of me. I ignore the rational part; she doesn't know what she's talking about, the little bitch.

"It was great, Wendy – how was your summer?" I smile at her and brush my long hair back into a braid, careful when weaving the delicate strands. It all falls out so easily now, and when it's not falling out it's just breaking off in my hands. I have to be hyper vigilant about keeping this from everyone, because if they catch me it's back to the loony bin for old Carly, and this time everyone will know where I've been because it's not summer camp it's happening in the middle of the year.

"I've been great. I went to California and I studying marine biology in Los Angeles," I tell her, giving me head a little toss for good measure. Wendy shrinks back, intimidated by my studiosity and she gives a little nervous laugh. I want to tell her to give up and go away, because this conversation isn't happening. _Sorry_.

"My dad says California is gorgeous," Wendy offers meekly. "He goes there on business a lot. He says it's always sunny, never raining. Wouldn't that be nice?" She smiles more widely this time, like somehow being in Seattle means we're bonded, that we can share this inside joke. I want to tell her that if you've begun to discuss _the weather_ with one of your supposed good friends, it means the conversation is over. You're being rejected, tuck your tail between your legs and go home. I am too busy calculating fat percentages in my head to deal with you right now, thankyouverymuch.

"Yeah. California was definitely sunny. We went out and saw some dolphins one day," I reply. I smile, and look just beyond her head at the way the sunlight is coming through the window. It looks like the light of God calling out to me – warm, bright, comforting. I want to run towards it, and slip out of my skin.

This is the thing about eating disorders that no one tells you (because _shhh,_ it's a secret!): it gets so tiring. Hating your body, keeping the disobedient bitch in line. There is so much to think about – and _not_ think about, for that matter. You do nothing but think of food, and it's the one thing you're not allowed to have and it's absolutely maddening. Anorexics get tired and lazy. We discover bulimia, and we feel dirty and out of control but God, at least it gives us something to do. There's very little do when you're not eating.

Sometimes I think about killing myself (there, I said it. Out loud. In my head.). I think about unzipping my arms, letting the warm scarlet life-blood pour out and stain my pale skin so everyone can see the sin and the hurt. I think about the feel of cool metal, silver and seductive between my thighs at that one vein in your groin. I think about how if I were dead, I would finally, _finally_ be free of hating this body. This awful, terrible body, that I'm forced to live in and endure.

I've read interviews with transgender people, and they talk about the burden of living in a body they hate – a body that disgusts them. How you wake up, go to the bathroom, look down and see these awful things sticking out of you that you would just as soon chop off. Too-womanly breasts, the too-masculine phallus. Want to go snipsnipsnip and make them all disappear, bury themselves back into the body. But you can't, of course, at least not in the moment. Instead you must settle for living with the (heavy, weighty) burden of being completely trapped. You cannot escape your body, outrun it. You can dress in different clothes, you can paint your face (or not). But the body stays with you, weighing you down and keeping you cocooned and contained in its awful ugliness.

I stare at my naked body in the mirror, fingering the disfiguring flesh and wanting nothing more than to cut it off myself, to pull it away from the beautiful bones I _know_ are lying underneath. I could be so strong if only I would _try harder_. I used my allowance to buy a scale, and I've hidden it in my room. Spencer weighs me once a week (blind weight, of course) and he thinks everything is fine. He doesn't know all the tricks, of course. Line your bras with weights. Put weights in your underwear. Paint your nails. Tape coins to your stomach. Insert a roll of quarters into yourself (bonus: kegel exercises!). Put weights in your hair, if you can. Wear lots of layers. Drink of ton of water and eat salt for even more water retention. Eat beforehand, if you can.

And when it's over, undo it all.

Put the weights, the coins, whatever it was you heavier yourself with away (hide them so they can't find them and won't know your dirty little secret). Take a diuretic, get that nasty water out of you so you know what your _true_ weight is (nothing is more important, more sacred than this). Do whatever it is you have to do to put things back in equilibrium, fix the problem that you yourself created. And when you've done what you must, have a tiny celebration because you're fixed, you're cured, you got rid of all that bad nasty weight, and don't you feel better now?

You're light as a thought, pure as a sunbeam.

* * *

I hate classes because I can't focus and they make me dizzy. And besides that my butt hurts sitting in these seats, my bones are all poking through and it's a really awful, uncomfortable feeling. I wish I had a pillow or something to soften it, but that might arouse suspicion and we can't have that, now can we? Sometimes I take off my sweatshirt and I use that, but I've been so cold lately that I can't do it. And anyway if I took off my sweatshirt everyone would see the other three layers I have on and that too, would arouse un-haveable suspicion.

"Carly, what's the answer to problem number seventy-seven?" my teacher asks, calling on me. I blink, staring at the board and forcing the little lines of the graph to _stay in place_. I hate sine and cosine graphs. They're hopelessly complicated, always weighing on my brain and picking at it like hungry birds. I don't have the energy to figure this out . . .

No. _Focus, _goddammit! Ana is screaming in my head, yanking me up by my hair and whispering in her angry hiss do I have to do everything for you, Carly? What a fat, lazy slut. What a lazy bitch. You need to learn the meaning of willpower, little girl, the meaning of discipline. And since clearly you aren't going to help yourself, I'm just going to have to be your teacher, won't I now? Hmm?

Yes. Focus. I squint at the board, and the answer shines through like a light. Of course, it was so easy, why did I panic in the first place? I say a silent prayer of thanks to Ana for coming through for me once again and helping me out. My beautiful savior goddess always comes through, always helps me when I'm too tired too help myself. She helps me find that place in myself, that last little bit of energy that I know is there but can't access on my own. Oh goddess Ana, I will worship you, I will lay my life on your altar and give you my body and soul to use are your divine vessel!

"The answer," I say, "is zero."

Ana smiles.

* * *

"This is so exciting. Our first iCarly since you got home!" Sam squeals in a very un-Sam-like manner. I glance at her, and she's wearing the biggest, brightest smile you ever saw. I suddenly feel very depressed, blinded by her light as I am. Sam is all golden hair, all blue eyes and Anglo-Scandinavian brightness. Me? I'm Carlotta, dark Spanish mysterious impetuousness. I always hated the name Carlotta. I never wanted it.

"I know. It's going to be awesome!" I tell her as we come to our building. Lewbert glares at us as we walk by, and I give him my sweetest smile and flip him the bird. I'm pissed off and just don't care at this point.

"Wow, Carly has an inner badass. I like post-rehab Carly," Sam says approvingly as we step into the elevator. Lewbert is gaping at us, horrifying, but he can't really leave his post so all there's left for him is to stew in his own anger as the elevator goes up up up. Freddie shakes his head at the two of us, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You two are going to get in so much trouble one day, and I can only pray I won't be too deeply involved so I can come and bail you out of jail," he sighs. "Sam, stop being such a bad influence on Carly," he scolds her. Sam laughs and pouts, knowing that Freddie will inevitably find this _so _adorable that there is just _no way_ for him to stay mad at her. My heart twitches, and I think _wow, I really do miss Jack_ because that's the first time my heart has ever physically jumped like that. It's strange, I suppose, what love can do. My _physical heart_ has _physically moved_ over some boy and isn't that –

Oh God, my heart. It hurts now. My breathing feels a little funny and my head is getting lighter. Icy panic floods my veins, hissing through my body and it takes every ounce of self-control for me not to stop moving, to keep putting one foot in front of the other. This isn't supposed to be happening. Yes, I weigh sixty-nine pounds but I'm fine, right? I'm okay I dropped all that nasty weight they put on me at the hospital. It was _ten whole pounds_, and I weighed eight-two when I got home but with discipline, with _will_, with never-sleeping I took all that yuck stuff off my body, so you could see my beautiful bones.

My chest feels tight though. This isn't supposed to be happening because really, I'm okay (even though there is dark hair all over my body, but it's been like that for a while now so don't worry, everything is _fine._). I shudder, take a deep breath and try to bring myself back to Freddie and Sam's conversation. There is nothing to worry about.

My heart though . . .

This can't be happening. I didn't mean any of this.

I was just kidding.

* * *

The awful feeling doesn't let up as we walk into my room. Sam has decided (taking my weak mewing as confirmation of agreement) that for our segment today, we're going to do a special on how to survive Junior year – the year of College Preparations. I tell her it will be great, but honestly it means nothing to me. I don't have a future waiting, hopeful behind closed doors. I have Ana, and I have hospitals waiting for me.

Please, please stop this now.

This isn't funny.

I don't like this game anyway.

I was only kidding.

"We're live in five, four three," Freddie is saying. I'm standing in front of the camera, staring at its blacks lens and feeling my soul start to slip away. Sam is giving me a funny look, and there are so many things that I want to say to her but I know that I don't have to time. Besides, all my energy is gone now, I can't speak. My voice is buried somewhere deep inside myself, buried in a place that's dark and small and that I can't get to. So I just focus on Sam, keeping my gaze steady with hers and thinking at her _I am so sorry for this_.

"Two," Freddie says, and the awful tightness gets even worse. There is a fissure between my body and my soul, and I started to slip into the abyss. It's dark and deep and I know that I'm not getting out of this one (I am beyond caring).

"One." I have no sense of self preservation. Do the show, take one last bow and then sleep and sleep and sleep, because in sleep all is good and warm and safe and wonderful. My sorrow is enough to earn forgiveness and oh God!

It's awful.

"Carly!" Sam screams as I hit the floor. It's the last thing I hear before my vision gives out, and I know that soon the rest of me will go with it. She can plead with me to stay all she wants, but it's time for me to go now and I can't. The party is over. I played the game, and I lost.

Please forgive me, Sammy.

I didn't mean it.

I was only kidding.


	17. XVI: Thinner is the Winner

XVI: Thinner is the Winner

* * *

_In fact, "an eating disorder, at its core, is a creative act," says [Amy] Poppink. That is because you probably came up with an eating disorder as a means to survive extraordinary psychological pain. Healing, according to Poppink, "involves gently and slowly cutting down on the eating-disordered behaviors." But when those do come down, something else has to take their place._

_~ Trisha Gura, __Lying in Weight

* * *

_

**2 October**

Thinner is the winner, they told me.

Except somehow, I'm now the loser.

* * *

I failed at everything. I failed at eating, and not exercising, and keeping myself together. I failed at not eating, and exercising enough, and keeping myself together. I failed to stop my hair from failing out, my skin from drying up and shrinking over me like saran warp. I have failed to keep color in my cheeks, to keep blood in my fingertips and toes. I am a ragdoll, jelly-spineless and unable to support myself. Instead, I live in a white world where there no thought, no movement, no feeling. There is only the steady hum-hum on my breath and the machines, and I must say I'm not ungrateful. It has become too tiring, too burdensome to continue to attack the world with such force and I happy for the rest and dismissal.

No one asks you to do anything when you're really sick. No brother asks you to eat dinner by yourself, no friends leave you alone to watch _Girly Cow_ re-runs while they go on a date. There is no Freddie abandoning me and choosing Sam; I don't have to lose the only person who was I _sure_ would always want me, always think I was beautiful. I don't have to sit and hate myself for denying my friends happiness, do not have to remember that I am a terrible person who does terrible things and thinks terrible thoughts.

Because I have done something terrible, haven't I? I've torn everything apart, smashing things into little pieces on the floor and screaming _fuck you_ and _I don't care_ when they look at me with sadness, with longing, with pity.

I am so very tired of people _wanting_ things from me.

Oh, the pleasure of the white hospital bed. I sit here and it is safe, with a little bar so that I don't fall out, and lots of blankets. There are buttons very close, and if I scream everyone must come running and say Carly-what-is-the-matter. People come in and check my charts, and say things like how-are-you-today-Miss-Shay. There is always someone who wants to look at me or prod me or somehow lavish me with some kind of attention. There are vital signs to take, and blood that must be drawn. There is a feeding tube that goes up my nose and drops into my belly, and it is cleaned and changed and new mush is put into it. I wish that they wouldn't do that, and although I try to explain that I am fat and that they aren't doing me any favors forcing me in me like this, they ignore me. I do not like this, but I have come to accept it. It is very tiring to constantly be in rebellion, and I tire so easily lately.

Some people complain that the days in the hospital are long and without anything to do, but I have been enjoying my time. I read books and go on the internet, and no one asks me to put on a show. I can just watch videos instead of performing, instead of constantly feeding the ever-hungering audience. I can catch up on all the shows I like that I don't watch during the week because there is always another _iCarly_ to plan, always another homework assignment that screams for completion.

And the dinner table is empty and my daddy is gone and my mama is gone and where oh where does that leave me?

_Hungry, _whispers a voice in the back of my head. _Hungry, hungry, hungry_. And I think yes, I am hungry, so I punch myself in the stomach for disobedience and I fall asleep.

* * *

_You don't __**deserve**__ to eat, little girl_.

I am so very hungry, though. I want to gnaw my hands and arms and legs, but the nurses all tell me that I already am. My body is eating itself, and tearing apart my muscles in the name of staying alive. _Alive_. I want to tell that them that I don't want their alive, that I'm tired of being alive. It takes too much work, and I'm not strong enough to face it. I'm weak, and tiny, and everyone wants something (too much!) from me. And maybe if I finally get little enough, they will realize that they can't do that. How can you demand something from someone who has nothing left to give? Who cannot even provide for herself?

I failed at staying alive, and I am tired of trying. I have only been existing, and even that has take far more effort than I really care to be putting into it. I don't want to die, but I don't want to live either. And anyway, it's not as though I've been such a great success at it. No, instead of living I effectively sliced myself into a million little pieces, and said _fuck you_ to anyone who tried to stitch me up and put me together. I threw out the advice, the meal plans, the help. I sweated it out on the elliptical, I ran around in the dark Seattle streets. I threw away my food, lied to everyone I claimed to love, and no matter how much I (didn't) eat I never felt good enough, full enough, _hungry_ enough.

Spencer comes to the hospital, but he doesn't talk. He looks at me with sad, scared eyes until I roll over and pretend to sleep. And then I hear him crying, great wet sobs that shake me because grown-ups aren't supposed to cry like that, with all those wet, shuddery noises. I want to scream and throw things at him, tell him to suck it up because this isn't happening to him, it's happening to me goddammit and can't I even have my eating disorder for myself, or is nothing so sacred? _It's my eating disorder_, I want to scream, _mine! You can't have it!_

I don't, of course. I am too weak and fragile to do such a thing. Instead of lashing out as I wish to I sit in silence, letting his grief wash over me like a too-big wave. I am tired, so tired that I cannot do anything but sit and wish for darkness to come and close around me. It's the only thing I have left, and the only thing I want to do anymore.

I sleep and I sleep and I sleep.

"Do you understand how sick you are?" Freddie asks me one day, looking at me with critical, squinting eyes. He and Sam have been keeping a daily vigil, staying at my bedside through the heart attack, through the waking and the pain and the crying. You would think that having a heart attack would be enough to wake me up, enough to shake me from this madness, but it's not. All I want is that good, hungry, empty feeling. I have grown addicted to it, needing it like I water, and air. I need to not-eat like everyone else needs to, and I could cry for the way they're pouring calories into my body right now.

"I'm . . ." The words fall off my tongue; I do not have words for what I am anymore. Somewhere down this rabbit hole, something got lost. So now wisps of once-was, of who-I-am, float around and are impossible catch.

"Carly, please stop this," Sam says quietly, tears welling up in her big blue eyes. "Please? For us?" she begs, taking my tiny little hand in hers. A warm salty tear hits my arm and I flinch, but the movement is so small and weak she doesn't even notice. She squeezes my hand tighter, crying harder. "Please, Carly, you have to stop this. I'm so scared," she hiccups, biting her lip. "What do you want to eat, Carly? Your favorite treat, anything you like, I'll bring it," she vows. "I mean, I know I'm not much of a cook but I can learn, I swear I can. Just tell me what you want. You're my best friend, Carls, this can't happen to you." The dam breaks and the tears gush forth, spilling all over both of us. I reach up to brush them away, and she grabs my hand to hold against her face. My strength falters and she is holding my hand up, the once-fleshy base of my thumb pressed to her lips.

"Sam, go get some tissues," Freddie says consolingly. He lightly rubs her shoulders and she looks at him with such intimacy I want to scratch her eyeballs out. _Mine_, I want to scream. _Mine, mine, mine! Both of you are mine, not each others. Don't you __**dare**__ abandon me like this_. I want to hiss it, to embroil myself into their thoughts until I am only, I am self. _Think of me remember me oh god please don't leave me like my mommy and daddy did no one loves me you're just like __**everyone else**__. _

"Thanks," Sam whispers. She gives me a look of longing and disappears to clean up her face. At least in theory. What she really needs is a break, because I'm too much and I drive people away. Well fine then. Fuck you. I don't need you anyway.

"You're killing us," Freddie says. "You're hurting her so much, Carly, she cries all the time," he tells me. He's looking at me in a way that he never has before. It's not quite anger brewing, but it's something like that. He's never looked at me that way before. Freddie is never upset with me, only adoring and _he's going to leave me too._ This revelation dawns on my and my heart hardens in my chest. _Fuck you_.

"So what do you want?" I snarl. The tube gets in the way and my voice sounds nasally, wrong. It's so incredibly frustrating I could scream, but all that would do is prove everyone right that crazy Carly is crazy.

"I want you to eat and stop hurting her," he says, and this time I _know_ there is anger in him. It's in the bite of his words, the slight acidity they leave behind. Hot enough to burn me up and I feel blood rise to my face.

"That's not your decision to make," I say coldly. He opens his mouth but I pounce before he can speak. _No._ "It's my body!" I shriek, my voice a crescendo arc. "Do you hear me, it's mine! It's the only thing that's mine and I won't let you take it away from me!" The heart rate monitor beeps urgently and I lose it, throwing my head back and letting out a blood-curdling scream. Freddie is frozen, looking at me with frightened eyes and I want me nails to be sharp and strong enough to dig them out of his skull. _Do not look at me like that_.

"Carly –"

"No!" I shriek, but he grabs my mouth to shut me up. I struggle, banging my tiny fists on the buttons and yelling through his hands for a nurse.

_I will not be silenced._

"Carly, you have to stop this, you have to get better," Freddie insists, trying to catch my eye. His hand slips and I bite down as hard as I can, making him yelp.

"I don't want your better," I say, crying and shaking my head. "Please, you have to understand, I don't want to be all alone again." The tears fall down my face in wet, salty streaks and it's too much for me to bear. I start screaming again, my arms wrapped around myself as if I could make the world go away.

Ana, I'm so sorry. They took a tube and strung it through my nose, letting this horrible yellow-white sludge drip down into my body, fill me up with fat fat fat. I tried to take it out, but it hurt so badly and I was so weak I didn't have the strength, so I had to give up. And of course you're made, as you have every right to be. I'm sorry.

Ana threw the worst fit ever and I was so scared. She screamed and screamed and stomped around, throwing things and slapping me across the face. _You lazy, stupid, weak little slut! _She shouted, her blue eyes burning cold as the North Sea at Christmas. Her blond hair was all over the place, like the licking flames of Hell. She paced around on her skinny, stiletto-strapped legs in her miniskirt, waving her arms around as I sleepily began to drift away. _I'm sorry,_ I wanted to say, but I knew already that my words wouldn't mean anything. They never mean enough with her.

_Stupid, lazy slut_, she growls, glaring at me from across the way. _Fine_, I want to say. _I suck. You're right_. I feel like my bones are going to give out under my skin.

Three days after my heart attack, the doctor comes in to see and tells me that I have approximately one week to live.


	18. XVII: Head Trauma

XVII: Head Trauma

* * *

_We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are._

_Anais Nin

* * *

_

I got better because the doctor said I wouldn't.

I got better to say _fuck you_ to everyone.

"She _can't_ have a week to live!" Spencer screamed as we sat in the hospital room. He slammed his fist into the wall, and it occurred to me that this was the first time I had ever seen Spencer truly _violent_. It was a curious sight to see, and some sick part of me wanted to laugh but I didn't. I held it in and merely watched the scene unfolding before me, fazing out the near things that would hurt. I didn't think about my own mortality. I didn't think about Spencer's pain. I told myself these people, me and Spencer, . . . we were some other people. The girl that was me was some other girl. When the doctor said _that girl has a week to live_, he didn't mean me. He meant someone else, someone in another room. A different girl. A dying girl. No, they couldn't mean me. I wasn't dying, I wasn't _that girl_.

"Please, you have to do something. Anything. I'll pay anything," Spencer whispered, tears sliding down his face. His big hands were trembling, a curious sight. I wanted to take them in my small bony ones and hold them so he wouldn't shatter into pieces. Instead I watched, disconnected from the whole thing.

"I'm so sorry," the doctor whispered, looking at Spencer with the saddest eyes I had ever seen. The tears came faster, and Spencer stood there in shock, not saying a word. His shoulders slumped forward and he buried his face in his hands, body shaking. Black stars danced before my eyes and I felt something tighten in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me.

_Dead?_

How could I die? How could this be happening? I hadn't gone to college. I hadn't gone to New York, or Europe. I hadn't gotten married, or had a kid. I wasn't going to get married, or see my friends get married. I would never know if Jack was going to be okay, or if Sam and Freddie were going to be in it for the long haul. I would never see Spencer's wife, or hold my niece or nephew because I would never even meet his next girlfriend. My life was stretched out before me, a long road that was suddenly falling out from under my feet. My chest got tighter and I laid there in shock, staring at the ceiling with horror. _This can't be happening_, I thought wildly. I curled my hands into fists and my hands pulsed, the flow of blood making them hot. _I can't die at sixteen, _I thought desperately. I thought I would cry.

Something in me snapped and I let out a howl.

"_No_!" I shrieked, grabbing a glass off my tray and flinging it as hard as I could. Spencer and the doctor jumped apart in surprise and I paused a minute, catching my breath and glaring at them. _You can't do this to me_, I thought wildly, my mind racing. I felt like a flood gate had been opened, letting lose the Pandora's box of my thoughts. _Can't die can't die can't die_. The words rang in my head as steady and firm as a heartbeat. _Can't die can't die can't die._

_Can't die can't die._

_Can't die. _

"Carly . . ." Spencer's voice trailed off and I continued to glare at him, fury burning through me like a sin. The sadness hurt too much to bear so I pushed it away, enveloping myself in the power offered by anger. It was almost better than hunger, sweet as a shot of heroin. The lack of pain was such a relief I briefly wondered if I could just stay angry for the rest of my life and never worry about being sucked down again.

The doctor was looking at me with the same pitying eyes he had used on Spencer, and I threw some silverware at him fury, my veins burning with the seduction of power. My mind was buzzed and blurry, hot like a crack den. It bubbled and hissed, ideas swimming about and exploding like fireworks. It occurred to me somewhere that this wasn't like me, that this _anger_ wasn't who I was, but I was too far gone to really care. Anger was the last spark of life I had left; if I wanted to live, I would have to embrace the fury hissing just under my skin.

"I'm not going to die, Spencer," I said desperately, shaking my head. "I'm not," I whimpered. The heart monitor beeped, and I hiccupped desperately. "I'm only sixteen," I whispered, looking at the doctor in desperation. "I – I didn't mean it." My stomach roiled and I thought for a minute that I would be sick. _Get angry_, I growled at myself. _Get __**powerful**_**. **

"You shouldn't stress yourself like this," the doctor advised, continuing to use those _awful_ pitying eyes. I could have sworn that I heard a hiss of anger in his voice. _You did this to yourself, you stupid girl_, he silently accused. I ignored his advice and against myself I felt tears begin to brim. _No_, I thought desperately. But it was too late; the tears were coming, spilling onto the sheets.

"I can't die," I sobbed, fresh fat tears welling up and falling down my face. "I'm sixteen years old. I can't," I wailed, burying my face in my hands. Spencer gingerly put a hand on my back, and my whole body shook with the intensity of my sobbing. I shook my head, trying to get the nightmare out of my mind. "This isn't supposed to happen this way." I looked up at Spencer, and his face was blurred through the salty tears.

"Shh, Carly," Spencer said. I waited for him to say the words I needed to hear, but he didn't and the silence hung between us like an infinite chasm. "I'm going to call Dad, okay?" he whispered, brushing a tear off the side of my face. I shook my head.

"Tell me everything is going to me okay," I begged, my lips trembling so badly I could barely choke the words out. He didn't respond, and panic began to sweep over me. The fear monster clawed at my belly, begging for release. I swallowed hard and it was like battery acid down my throat. "Spencer, please," I whispered, grabbing at his hand. "Tell me everything is going to be okay." He still didn't say anything, but now he began to pull away, his hand slipping from mine. "_Spencer!"_

"I'm so sorry, Carly," he said. "I love you so much."

I gasped and my world went black.

* * *

Evening comes, and nothing is really different.

"I will not die," I spit, breathing hard. "This is my body. Not yours. I'm the only one who gets to decide the expiration date." Spencer and the doctor are sighing, shaking their heads. They look a little sick and I squirm, trying to throw off their worry and pity. It feels itchy, scratching below the surface of my skin and making me want to jump away. Spencer looks at me with what I'm sure is supposed to be compassion, but I can't stand it. I look away and bite my lip, feeling jumpy and not wanting to yell at him again. I feel too bad for yelling at him the first time.

"Grandpa's coming, Carly," he says, smiling uneasily. "Dad is too. I've been making some calls," he says, trying to be cheerful. I curl my legs up to my chest, trying to keep my breathing steady. _Tell them I don't want them_, I want to say. _Tell them to go away. Tell them that it's too little too late_, I want to scream. But my voice is weak, and I can't find the strength to pull it forth.

"I hope you know how much I love you," Spencer says, petting my hair. I pull away and wince to watch the strands shatter.

"I'm not going to die," I repeat, and the doctor fixes me with a hard glare that I hate.

"You have a week to live," she says bluntly, and I narrow my eyes. Something in me is bubbling, is frothing to the surface. Some small, hoping part that I thought I had murdered, but apparently I didn't. She claws her way past all my viscera, bursting onto the scene as she climbs up my windpipe, her essence invading all my alveoli.

_You are going to regret this, little girl_, Ana hisses, trying to take control back. _You think you can get away with this rebellion? You think that you can survive without me? _She asks, looking down at me with condescending eyes and hateful anger. I get this close to hesitating, and then a take the plunge because I know if I wait, it will not happen. Instead I look at both of them, Spencer and my doctor, giving each a good hard glare before the next words come out of my mouth. _You think I can't get better? _I hiss and seethe, letting the anger ride through me and purify me. _Think again, assholes_. It is not a giant leap, a soaring arc, but it is the first baby step I need. And it is _mine_.

_I will not die. _

"Bring me a can of Ensure."

* * *

The first time I drink Ensure, I throw up.

This goes on for days, but I keep gulping it down. My grandfather comes, and he watches me with guarded eyes. He seems to be torn between being impressed with my determination and horrified by my deterioration. He never takes his eyes off me, his gaze steady and piercing. He sits in the plastic chair and drums his meaty fingers on his thigh, silent and big in his presence. I'm too on edge to deal with it and I finally snap, just barely resisting the urge to throw cans at him.

"What?" I ask, crossing my arms. "If you have something to say, just say it," I order. I'm too tired to fight with him; all my energy is concentrated on not puking.

"You look like an escapee from Auswitz," my grandfather breathes. He reaches to touch me, his hands trembling as though I frighten him. There is a part of me that wants to fall into his arms, and a part of me that wants to prove that I can do everything myself.

"I do not," I hiss back, more to be defiant than everything else.

"I can see every bone in your body, goddammit!" he shouts, banging his fist down and making the silverware on my table jump. "God, Carly, do you know how scared I was getting that phone call? I dropped the phone. I had to call your brother back, because I had to sit down and catch my breath. It was one of the most horrible things I ever experienced. Swear to God, you're coming back to Yakima with me after this," he growls, ice burning in his eyes. "I can't believe I ever let you stay with Spencer," he moans, burying his face in his hands.

"Spencer is responsible – "

"Spencer is child, Carly," my grandfather says tiredly, looking at me with heavy eyes. "You have a child raising a child. It doesn't work. Spencer just isn't responsible – "

"You're wrong! He wanted me to have my inhaler!" I cry. I take another swig off the Ensure as though that's somehow going to prove my point. "You can't take he away from him," I say.

"He can and he will Carly." I look up, and I feel my heart go into my throat. Spencer is standing there looking like a kicked puppy, and standing next to him . . .

. . . is my dad.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Sorry this chapter is a little short and a bit of a filler . . . hopefully I'll have the next bit up soon. Question for all: would you guys have any interest in an alternative ending in which Carly dies? If so, would you be more interested in a shorter fic revolving mainly around the immediate death and funeral, or a longer one examining the impact of her death on Spencer, Freddie, and Sam (among others, but I would focus most on them. Perhaps throwing in Melissa, Holly, and/or Jack depending on interest). Let me know in the reviews, or PM me. I will take this message down after I've made a decision. Thanks so much for following me this far; I love hearing from all of you and getting your questions, comments, and criticism. Thanks again!


	19. XVIII: Undone

XVIII: Undone

* * *

_This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses._

_Now choose life, so that you and your children may live._

- Deuteronomy 30:19

* * *

"Daddy." The word feels foreign on my tongue. Heavy, like trying to talk with peanut butter in my mouth. I would have thought that I would start to cry, but I don't. Maybe I'm too numb. Maybe I've been too distant from him for too long. Maybe I'm just too tired. Or too close to death. The energy that it would take to cry is too much, would engage more emotions than I have in the past year, let alone in the past couple of hours. _HimynameisCarlyandIamdy-ing. . . _

"They let you come home when a family member is dying. So you can say goodbye," my father says. He looks tired, even more tired than me. There are dark circles all under his eyes, and he is paler than I've ever seen him. I want to cradle him in my arms like a child, but my arms are tiny and bird weak not good for holding things.

"Joseph, look at her." My grandfather's voice is low and angry none too friendly. He is a storm, seething and hissing and wanting to des-troy everything in his path. I want to tell him _calm down _and _everything will be okay _and _I'm alright_. But not all of these things are true and I don't know what to say so I say nothing, just pull my blankets around my (finally, possibly/impossibly) thin body.

"Carly, please eat," my father says, as though it weren't too late. I smile, I touch his face and say _everything is going to be okay_. And then I black out.

* * *

Jack comes to visit me a couple of days (too. Many. Cans. Of. Ensure.) later. He looks thin and tired, and I notice the red marks on the back of his hands. He takes my hand in his and we are both cold, both have papery, dry skin. I remember all the books I've read about eating disorders, how I can note all the signs and symptoms from a million/million/million miles away. Jack kisses me and he tastes like stomach acid.

"You've been throwing up," I say.

"Yes," he confirms. And this time he's different and I notice something new in his eyes. I notice _shame_. I've never seen Jack look ashamed of what he (we?) do. He were so _p.r.o.u.d _to be sick, so happy to be _d.i.f.f.e.r.e.n.t_. And we were caught up in our world of cigarettes of lies and alcohol and the heady scent of fresh vomit, the high of not-eating and exercising too much and binging and purging and being so fucking _fucked up_. So much pain and so many tears and -

I think of Jack and I remember the scent of sex, the feeling of being so deeply and completely loved that I sometimes thought it would consume me. Except it never would, because someone stood in the way of the path to my heart, and she said _I will not allow you entrance. _Ana stood at the front of my heart and she wouldn't let anyone come in, because she needed me to be all to herself, needed to have all parts of me and no one else could have me, even just the littlest part. Anan said no no no no no when I tried to say yes yes yes yes yes. She stood there and guarded me and built up walls but the thing about living in walls is that –

Is that it gets confiding after a while. The walls don't feel safe anymore. They feel like they're choking you, like they're going to suffocate you. They feel hurting and painful and they make you think that something terrible is going to happen because it probably is. The walls and Ana – they are an asthma attack. I cannot breathe and I cannot move and I am moving in molasses, I am sick sick sick and so is Jack except I'm starting wondering hoping wanting to believe that maybe we're not that maybe something good is going to happen that maybe that maybe oh maybe just maybe –

"I heard you were dying. So I had to come, you see," Jack says. His words are all a jumble like something is wrong in his head, like he doesn't feel well. Worry seizes me and I begin to wonder if Jack could be dying too.

"Are you okay?" I ask him, running my fingers tips over his (pronounced) knuckles. He presses his head into my lap and stroke his hair gently, paying attention not to set off the heart monitor with activity. Jack sighs and his breath is so warm. I had forgotten that anything could be warm.

"I threw up blood," he whispers, a shudder takes over my whole body. "I threw up blood in the bathroom. I told them they had to bring me here because you were dying, and I was scared, and I had – " The word _goodbye_ lingers between us, unspoken, too painful. It would be like trying to open up my bones and I could not do that to myself or anyone. I kiss the top of Jack's head he sighs again. And again I in warm I a way that I forgotten to be. "When I got here I went to the bathroom. My mother was too distracted to notice. I hadn't eaten much – well, I mean, I ate breakfast but it wasn't a binge and I estimated everything wrong. I pressed too much and so much acid came up and God, it hurt, Carly, I mean it really did. So I threw up in the bathroom and there was blood. I cleaned it up. My throat hurts, Carly, I'm scared. Maybe I'm dying too," he whispered, and I hugged him as fiercely as I could.

"Tell me about your family again," I murmur and he smiles against my lap. "Go on."

"My little sister is the sweetest girl in the world, and I know my mother loves me even as we argue. I haven't talked to my father in years. He's in California, in a hospital _crazy_." His laughes again and I think, this is the part that I've never heard before. I want to here/I don't want to hear. I say nothing (Carly does not have a voice she cannot speak she cannot say what she wants or feels or thinks or needs because she is voiceless mute and she cannot speak she cannot speak SHE CANNOT SPEAK).

"What's wrong with him?"

"He has schizophrenia. Sometimes I think I do too, you know. I mean, what kind of fucked up person makes himself throw up all the time, you know?" he asks, looking at me and not letting me answer. "He's just so sick and – I think I'm going to end up like him, Carly, looked up somewhere and just in my head and – doesn't that sound awful?" he asks. I shrug.

"How is that any different than the way I live now?" I ask quietly. And he is silent, and the air around us tightens just like Ana's noose always will. Jack kisses me again and I can taste his blood, taste the way the acid mixes with it and makes the saddest, most horrible taste ever. And that's when I start to (finally) cry because I can stand my own part so very well, but I can't stand Jack's – that is too much for me to carry with me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I feel that my voice is finally starting to grow, to blossom from somewhere deep within me. "I'm sorry," I say again, and my voice is louder. And then I'm screaming it, saying the words over and over again at the top of my lungs and sobbing so much I think that I will fill a whole river with my tears. _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry and you will never know just how sorry I am. _

"Carly?" Jack's voice is small and lost in my hollowing as the nurses come and somehow, somewhere, finally I _finding my voice_.

"You have to get better Jack," I tell him. "Please get better. Please don't do this to yourself, okay? We'll do it together. We'll live. You and me both. We can do this. We can get better but please, please – " and I can't speak for crying. He's just nodding, and he grasps my hand one last time to squeeze it. Something surges in me and we lock eyes and I hear him echoing in my head _yes and yes oh yes and yes I will always I will_.

And Jack is gone and the room is quiet and I ask for a can of Ensure even though drinking it will make me cry even more.

* * *

Two weeks, three days, sixteen hours, thirty-two minutes and fourteen seconds after I am supposed to be dead I am not. I am sitting in my bed in the hospital, watching _Girly Cow_ and eating some frozen yogurt because it's not as scary as ice cream. Somewhere, Jack is in a hospital and he is breathing and he is sending me emails that say in all kinds of tongues _Carly I love you Carly I love you Carly I love you_. And I say back in all my tongues _Jack I love you Jack I love you Jack I love you_. An invisible cord holds us together and the way we breathe is in perfect sync and harmony. I still hold him in my arms and the miles fade away.

I am eating when my father comes in. He avoided me at first, not knowing what to say as I gained one pound and two pounds and three. He looks at me like I'm someone else and I want to say I'm not Mom and I'm not leaving like she did. He wouldn't believe me if I said that though so I don't, I show him with my actions that I am here, I am real and tangible and present and I love him and I will stay because I was asked.

"Hey baby girl," he says, sitting beside me. He takes my (small) hand in his (large) hand. My father can't decide whether he approves of Jack or not. I know that he doesn't like that Jack is sick too, he think it's a . I don't know how to tell him that Jack is the only one who loves me truly and keeps me floating, who makes recovery worth .

"Carly, what happened?" my father asks quietly, putting him arm around me. I bury my face in his shoulder like I'm still a little girl, like I'm six and the world is fairytales and happiness. Like I can still eat peanut-butter-and-sprinkle sandwiches, and like Sam and I are going to throw glitter everywhere and be wrapped up in our world of Let's-Play-Pretend. Everyone knew we were going to be actresses because we could pretend so well and so believingly but oh really it was Sam who glowed so brightly and beautifully my golden star.

"I don't know. I never meant for this to happen. It was – I mean, I was kidding," I tell him and I think it might be one of the stupidest things I've ever said. _I was kidding_. But I was. I thought it was a game and the problem with that is that when you try to play the game of anorexia you always lose and Ana always wins because she is perfect and she never loses at anything ever. "I've just been wanting you to come home for so long, Daddy, and I miss you so much. And it's so lonely," I whispter, saying everything like it's a secret or a bad word. And my father swallows hard and he pulls me (tighter/closer/harder) into him so that I can smell the scent of his detergent. It mingles with his aftershave, his deodorant and something that is just him, just my father and his essence. And I cry, and my tears stain his shirt and tells me things like _shh shh shh baby _and _it's alright Carly I love you I love you I love you so much and I love you more than anything in this world._

"Please don't leave me," I beg, the sobs wracking my body. "Please," I say and I throw my arms around him (as though I had any strength left to hold him/to stop him/to make him stay with me and make the world stop spinning around me).

"Carly, I can't do that. Honey, I would stay with your forever if I could," he tries to explain but he doesn't make me feel better. "You have your grandpa, and your brother Spencer, and all your friends and viewers." He swallows reluctantly. "You have Jack," he says and I can tell that the name leaves a bad taste in his mouth (I'm sorry Daddy I'm so sorry).

"It's not – Dad, why did Mama leave me? Why didn't she love me enough?" I ask, desperate for an answer after so many years. "She left – "

"Carly, your mother was very ill," my father says softly and the tears pour down as I whisper _what_.

"Your mother was very ill, Carly. She had – has? – bipolar. She couldn't take care of you or your brother at all. She went to California, I think, maybe Los Angeles. I lost track of her, Carly. I tried to find her and bring her home, I really did. I wanted so badly for you kids to have a mother – but it wasn't right. I loved your mother so much, Carly," he breathed, and suddenly I saw her in his eyes, pure and bright and beautiful and never straying, always faithful (except for all this damn _disease_). "I tried to reason with her. I tried to do anything – I couldn't, Carly, I just couldn't. She couldn't be reasoned with." And now I can't breathe because I'm thinking Jack's father and my mother and how his mother loved him so much and he can't feel it, can't see it and suddenly I can rushing towards the surface, almost clear and almost there. And I see in ways I never have before.

I will breathe. I will live. I will not be a disease. I will find the love around me. Yes. Yes.

I will always.


End file.
